The Way We Thunk

By Keith A Pearson

For more information about the author and to receive updates on his
new releases, visit: www.keithapearson.co.uk

Copyright © 2023 by Keith A Pearson. All rights reserved. This book,

or any portion thereof, may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express, written permission of the author, except for
the use of brief quotations in a book review.
 Author’s Note

The Way We Thunk is based upon the 2018 novel, Meeting Mungo
Thunk. Both are standalone stories and can therefore be read in any order.
However, if you’d like to understand Mungo Thunk’s back story, you might
prefer to read Meeting Mungo Thunk first. It’s available from Amazon in
ebook, paperback, and audiobook format.
 1
They say that the customer is always right. I beg to differ.
The customer always thinks they’re right, but in my limited retail
experience, they seldom are.
I’ve already clarified my position, but the sour-faced man on the opposite
side of the counter isn’t giving up without a fight. I’m ninety-nine per cent
certain I know what he’ll say next.
“I want to see your supervisor.”
So predictable.
“Sir, he’ll only repeat what I’ve already told you.”
“Are you going to fetch a supervisor, or do I have to ring your head
office and make a formal complaint about the service in this store?”
I’m about to suggest he calls head office when the customer service
supervisor, Troy, appears.
“Is there a problem here, Jake?” he asks.
I don’t like Troy. I’d even go as far as to say I regularly fantasise about
punching Troy in the face. It’s not that I’m a violent man, but my supervisor
brings out the worst in me, in everyone.
“No, there’s not a problem,” I reply. “I was …”
“Are you a supervisor?” the customer asks, staring at Troy.
“Yes, Sir. I am.”
“Good, because your colleague here refuses to help me. I’m close to
making a formal complaint.”
Troy shoots a disapproving look in my direction before addressing the
customer.
“I’m sure I can help you, Sir. What’s the problem?”
The customer taps the box on the counter. “I purchased this pair of
headphones last week, but now they’re on offer for fifty per cent less. I
want a refund.”
“Okay, do you have your receipt?”
“Not on me, no.”
“By rights,” Troy replies. “We do require proof of purchase.”
“They’re still in the box, unused. Are you going to be as unhelpful as
your colleague?”
 Always keen to grasp an opportunity to undermine me, Troy flashes a
sickly smile at the customer.
“I apologise that my colleague was less than helpful. It’s a little
convoluted but I can refund the headphones at the original price, and then
you can buy the same pair at the discounted price.”
“At last,” the customer puffs. “Someone who knows what they’re doing.
Thank you.”
Troy turns to face me. “Jake, process this gentleman’s refund.”
“But, you do …”
“Now, Jake,” he interrupts.
“I don’t think …”
“I said, now!”
I shrug my shoulders and begin processing the refund. Troy watches my
every keystroke until he’s ready to claim the final glory.
“There we are, Sir,” he says, handing over the headphones and a new
receipt. “My apologies for the misunderstanding.”
“No problem.”
No longer sour-faced, the customer departs. Troy turns to me.
“It’s a good job I stepped in when I did. You need to make far more effort
when assisting customers, Jake.”
“What exactly did I do wrong?”
“You could have easily refunded that gentleman without all that fuss.”
“I wouldn’t give him a refund for good reason.”
“Just because he didn’t have a receipt, there was no need to be difficult.”
“I wasn’t being difficult. He didn’t buy those headphones from us.”
My supervisor’s mouth bobs open. “I beg your pardon?”
“He bought them from Amazon last week and then noticed we’re selling
them for half the price. I told him he’d have to get his refund from Amazon,
and that’s when he started getting shirty.”
“For Pete’s sake,” Troy snaps, his cheeks reddening. “Why didn’t you tell
me that?”
“I tried.”
“Well, you didn’t try hard enough, did you? I’ve got a good mind to talk
to Barry about this.”
Even if our store manager cared about the tiny dent in TechWorld’s
profits, which he probably doesn’t because he’s counting down the days till
retirement, Barry Clark can’t stand Troy any more than the rest of us.
 “Would you like me to come with you?” I reply with a wry smile. “So
that Barry hears the full facts about what happened.”
“No, I would not.”
Troy shakes his head before storming off towards the stock room. I might
have won the battle, but the war will continue because Troy sees me as a
threat to his career advancement in the branch. I don’t know why because
I’ve zero interest in pursuing a career in retail, and I thought I’d made my
lack of ambition clear in the three bloody months I’ve worked here.
Not clear enough, it seems.
“Must try harder, Jake,” I mutter under my breath.
Such is the state of British retail these days, recruiting staff seems to be
an ongoing challenge, which is why TechWorld ended up hiring me, I
suspect. After my interview with Barry, he knew I didn’t really want the
job, and that was before he confirmed the abysmal pay. However, he also
knew I had no choice because very few employers offer staff the flexibility
to work around school hours and off-term holidays.
Five months ago, I would have laughed if someone had suggested I’d end
up working as a customer service assistant in an electrical store by the
autumn. And yet, here I am, and I’m sure as hell not laughing.
It’s not just that I hate the crappy pay, the belligerent customers, and
Troy, obviously — it’s everything this job represents. It’s a daily reminder
of how far I’ve fallen in a relatively short period.
For nine years, I worked for a global IT company; the last three as a
customer support manager. I can’t say I loved the job, but the pay was great,
and I could run the department with my eyes shut. Then, out of the blue, the
company decided to relocate its entire support department to New Delhi.
Whatever faceless committee of suits made that decision, they’re
responsible for the shitshow my life has since become. Okay, maybe they’re
not entirely responsible, but they were certainly the catalyst.
“You okay, Jake?” Ash asks, breaking my thoughts. “You’re miles away.”
“Yeah, I’m fine, although I think I’ve upset Troy.”
“Troy is always upset about something. I wouldn’t worry.”
Ash flashes his trademark smile. I wouldn’t go as far as to say we’re
friends, but my fellow customer service assistant is at least tolerable. Saying
that, his relentlessly cheerful attitude does grate.
“On an unrelated note,” he continues. “I’m setting up a lottery syndicate
if you’re interested? We’re all putting a tenner a month into a pot, and we’ll
share any prizes.”
“How many have signed up?”
“Seven, plus me. That increases our odds of winning eightfold. Nine, if
you join.”
“No thanks,” I huff. “The lottery is a mug’s game.”
“Granted, the odds are long, but you never know, Jake. Are you sure you
don’t want to join?”
“Positive. Besides, you wouldn’t want me to join, not with the luck I’ve
had this year.”
“Good luck always follows bad.”
I’m about to contest Ash’s statement when I notice a pension-age couple
heading in our direction. They approach the counter.
“Our daughter has suggested we get one of those new-fangled mobile
telephones,” the husband states. “Could you gentlemen help us choose
one?”
I’m all for the older generation embracing technology, but I have neither
the time nor the patience to help this particular couple.
“Sure,” I reply. “Can you give us a second, please?”
I pull Ash to one side.
“Listen, mate,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I need to be away at three
on the dot. Can you deal with them?”
“No problem,” he beams.
With all the enthusiasm of a Golden Retriever, Ash invites the couple to
follow him over to our modest display of mobile phones. I'll be amazed if
he returns before his twenty-sixth birthday in December.
I stand and watch my colleague for a few minutes. Ash is only seven
years younger than me, but the difference in our respective attitudes is
almost a generation apart. He still retains the optimism and enthusiasm for
life I’ve somehow lost. At thirty-two, I no longer consider myself young,
and with a marriage, mortgage, and parenthood checked on the life goal list,
the spectre of middle age is now beckoning. Perhaps I peaked too soon, and
everything from this point onwards is a slow descent to a shitty end. Most
days, it feels that way.
I spot Troy heading in my general direction. Without a doubt, he’ll try
and hold me up by insisting I complete some needless task. Before he spots
me, I make a beeline for the toilets, where I can see out the last five minutes
of my shift.
 There is no more depressing way to spend five minutes than sitting in a
cold, stinking toilet cubicle, counting the minutes until you can leave a job
you hate to hurry to a meeting you could do without, relating to a problem
you never wanted.
To quote Aristotle, or perhaps it was Confucius: fuck my life.
At one minute to three, I hurry out of the toilets and escape TechWorld
for the day. I’m usually relieved to leave, but today, the six-hour shift is
only a precursor to a more troubling issue blighting my life — that
pertaining to our four-year-old son, Finn.
I hop in the car and complete the dash across town to Belle Vue Infant
School. Knowing there will be nowhere to park on Belle Vue Road itself, I
abandon my car in a neighbouring street and jog the remaining few hundred
yards. Finally, it’s a dash across the playground to Finn’s classroom, where
a group of parents are congregated at the door, waiting for their offspring.
Half-smiles and nods are exchanged with people whose names I don’t
know. We’re five weeks into the kid’s first term, and I still haven’t
progressed beyond the basic label of Finn’s Dad, probably because I’ve too
much to worry about beyond making friends with a random group of
strangers I see twice a day for two minutes.
The door opens, and Finn’s teacher, Miss Kimble, begins the tedious task
of nudging her pupils out the door one by one, but only after checking a
parent is waiting. I’m the last man standing.
“Hi there, Mr Mason,” Miss Kimble says, her voice carrying a
sympathetic lilt.
She then places a hand on my son’s head and guides him forward. He
approaches me dead-eyed and sullen.
“How’s he been today?” I ask, taking Finn’s hand.
“He’s said a few words to his … his special friend, but not much. He’s
still quite withdrawn.”
I squat down so I’m at Finn’s level.
“Hey, little guy. Did you remember we’re going to see the nice lady in
town this afternoon?”
He nods.
“There’s nothing to worry about. It’s only a nice chat, and Mummy and
Daddy will be right there with you, okay?”
He nods again. I look up to Miss Kimble and she responds with a strained
smile.
 “Are you going to say goodbye to Miss Kimble?” I ask.
He turns around and waves half-heartedly.
“Bye, Finn. See you tomorrow.”
My son’s teacher then mouths the words good luck at me and disappears
back inside the classroom. She knows about our appointment with a
therapist because it was the school’s own special educational needs
coordinator, Mrs Carter, who first put a name to the worrying change in
Finn’s behaviour: selective mutism. That was three weeks ago, and
although he’ll occasionally chatter away to an imaginary friend or mumble
the odd word, it’s been almost six weeks since Finn engaged any adult in
conversation.
We’re at our wit’s end and even though no parent wants to involve a
therapist in their child’s life, we’re desperate for answers, for a solution.
Chloe and I have struggled to find much we agree on of late, but there is
one point on which we’re in complete agreement — we want our bright,
chirpy little boy back.
This therapy plan has to work because our family is at a crisis point, and
we can’t take much more. I can’t take much more.
 2
I pull into the hospital car park ten minutes before we’re due to meet
with Dr Claire Goodwin. Scanning the bays, I can’t see Chloe’s car but
knowing how busy she is at work at the moment, I suspect she’ll arrive
barely a minute before our appointment.
“Right,” I say breezily, unclipping Finn’s seatbelt. “Shall we go and meet
the nice lady?”
He looks up at me, his large, conker-brown eyes unwilling to betray the
lack of a verbal response.
“It’ll be fine, mate. I promise.”
My attempt to reassure Finn is met with a slight nod. What I wouldn’t
give just to see him smile again, to hear a giggle, or better still, for my son
to speak to me. This — whatever it is — breaks my fucking heart, but I
cannot let him know that.
With Finn’s hand in mine, we make our way to the main reception. The
moment we step through the doors, my phone rings. I pull it from my
pocket and inwardly seethe when I see Chloe’s name on the screen. She
should be here by now.
I answer her call.
“Jake, I’m sorry,” she blurts. “I’m running late.”
“How late?”
“Fifteen minutes, maybe.”
There are many ways I’d like to respond, most involving the liberal use
of industrial language but as I’m standing in a public space with my son at
my side, I have little choice but to bite my tongue.
“We can’t ask her to wait because you’re running late,” I say flatly.
“I know. Start the session, and I’ll get there as quickly as I can.”
I don’t want to trigger an argument, but Chloe needs to know I’m not
happy about her missing fifteen minutes of our son’s first therapy session.
“I suppose we’ll see you when we see you,” I hiss, making no attempt to
mask my annoyance.
I terminate the call, knowing full well that Chloe will be seething on the
other end of the line. It’s a hollow victory but a victory, nonetheless. It’s
also a tragic barometer of how our marriage has disintegrated since that
day, seven weeks ago.
With Finn now gripping my hand tightly, I adopt another reassuring smile
as we head to the main reception desk. From there, we follow directions to
the paediatric department and another reception area, albeit with far
cheerier décor than the first.
After an invitation to take a seat in the waiting area, my full focus should
be on Finn and our meeting with Dr Goodwin, but I can’t quell the ire
simmering away in the pit of my stomach. If I were thinking rationally, I’d
tell myself there’s no sense in getting upset about a situation I can’t control
— Chloe is running late and there’s nothing I can do about it. However, I
have enough self-awareness to realise that I’ve overreacted to almost every
inconsequential mistake Chloe has made over the last seven weeks:
ordering the wrong kind of rice from the takeaway, forgetting to buy bin
liners, and leaving the kitchen light on all night. My petty, resentful attitude
has nothing to do with rice or bin liners or even our electricity bill but a lot
to do with another mistake my wife made — one I’d place in the category
of unforgivable.
I’m torn from my negative thoughts when a woman approaches. Tall, and
dressed in a dark two-piece suit, she smiles down at me.
“Mr Mason?”
I get to my feet. “Err, yes. Hi.”
“Claire Goodwin. It’s nice to meet you.”
She thrusts out a hand which I tentatively shake. Then, the doctor sits on
the vacant seat next to Finn. He doesn’t seem to notice and continues
staring at the book on his lap.
“And, you must be Finn, right?”
It’s a mark of how differently adults and children see the world that Finn
appears to react positively to the doctor’s question. He nods and, to my
surprise, replies to the doctor’s smile with one of his own, albeit lukewarm.
In his shoes, I doubt I’d muster a wider smile.
Although Finn might be the one receiving treatment, he’s not the real
reason we’ve ended up here. If he’s broken, it’s because we did something
wrong, and I’ve carried more than my fair share of guilt since we first made
this appointment. Now, I fear Dr Goodwin is about to judge us as much as
she’ll be treating Finn.
“Shall we take a seat somewhere more comfortable?”
 “Sure.”
Without being asked, Finn jumps down from his chair and stands beside
me. Dr Goodwin then beckons us towards a corridor, and the door to her
office.
“Is your wife not joining us?” the doctor asks, opening the door and
inviting us to enter.
“Chloe’s running a bit late, but hopefully, she’ll be here in fifteen
minutes.”
“That’s fine.”
I had wondered what a therapist’s office might look like, particularly an
office belonging to a therapist treating children, but Dr Goodwin’s office
isn’t the explosion of bright colours I half expected. There are splashes of
yellow ochre and olive green in the soft furnishings, but the subtle styling is
similar to that you’d find in a show home on a new housing development.
Dr Goodwin invites us to take a seat on a large sofa. Her desk is near the
window and, at the far end of the room, there’s a child’s table and chairs, a
bookcase, and a stack of large plastic tubs that likely contain colouring
materials or modelling plasticine, I’d imagine.
“Would you like a glass of juice or milk, Finn?” the doctor asks.
He shakes his head.
“What about you, Mr Mason? Would you like a tea or coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks, and call me Jake.”
“Of course.”
The doctor then places a chair in front of the sofa and sits down, facing
us.
“Firstly,” she begins, “Thank you for completing the online diary. It’s a
useful tool when it comes to helping me understand what we’re dealing
with.”
In the weeks leading up to this appointment, we’ve submitted daily
records of Finn’s behaviour, and filled in countless forms and
questionnaires.
“Now, as your wife is running late, perhaps this might be a good
opportunity for Finn and I to have a little time together if that’s okay with
you, Jake?”
“Of course.”
Doctor Goodwin turns to Finn and asks if he’d like to read a book with
her. He nods, and then the doctor turns back to me.
 “If you’d like to wait outside, Jake, I’ll call you in when I’m ready.”
“Oh, right … okay.”
I hate the idea of leaving Finn alone with a stranger, but this is all part of
the process, I suppose.
“Finn, I’m just popping next door to, err, read a magazine.”
My son barely pays any attention as I stand and step towards the door. He
does, however, positively respond when Dr Goodwin asks him to join her at
the bookcase. It’s a stab in the heart that he wants to engage with a stranger
more than he wants to engage with his own parents.
Once I’m on the opposite side of a closed door, I flop down on the
nearest chair and pull out my phone. As a distraction, I tap through to the
Aldervale United fans’ forum, where there will no doubt be scores of posts
relating to the team’s woeful performance on Saturday. Eleven games into
the new season and we’ve lost eight, drawn two, and tasted victory only
once. As expected, the first few posts all relate to our manager and question
why the board of directors still haven’t sacked him. Some contributors
strongly suggest that the chairman also needs to go. Personally, I think half
the squad should be sacked too.
A familiar voice breaks my focus, and I glance towards the reception
desk. Chloe has finally arrived. My wife shoots an apologetic smile in my
direction before hurrying over.
“God, I’m so sorry,” she says before sitting in the chair next to mine.
Then, the obvious question. “Where’s Finn?”
“I sent him off to get me a coffee,” I reply, sarcastically. “Where do you
think he is?”
I nod towards Dr Goodwin’s office door.
“He’s in there on his own?” Chloe replies.
“Yes, because you’re late, and Dr Goodwin wanted to make use of the
time. If you’d read the information pack, you’d know that the therapy
includes one-to-one sessions without us.”
“Alright,” she replies, huffily. “Drop the attitude, eh.”
“There wouldn’t be any attitude if you’d arrived on time.”
“I couldn’t help it. I said I’m sorry.”
“Your apologies are wearing thin, Chloe. How about you stop fucking up,
and then there won’t be any need to keep saying sorry, will there?”
She glares back at me and then puffs a tired sigh.
“We said we wouldn’t do this. Not here, not now.”
 We’ve struggled so hard to find even the smallest patch of common
ground of late, but Chloe is right — we did promise that we’d put our
problems to one side and focus on Finn.
“Why are you late?” I ask, impassively.
“Do you really want to know, or are you looking for another stick to beat
me with?”
“I was curious what took precedence over our son, that’s all?”
“Nothing takes precedence over Finn, and you know that. I was late
because I couldn’t find my car keys. It’s as simple as that.”
“Right.”
A tiny part of me is disappointed by Chloe’s excuse. I so wanted her to
blame a work-related issue — any ammunition to bolster my attack. Chloe’s
job is the real reason we’re here today, and never a day goes by when I
don’t resent her employment at Loxford Commercial Furniture. It was
never meant to be like this.
Almost a year ago, Chloe began looking for a part-time job. Having put
her career on pause to focus on her role as a mother, I think she missed
having her own life. However, finding a suitable position wasn’t as easy as
Chloe anticipated.
Then, by pure chance, an opportunity arose from an unlikely source.
I popped into The White Horse after watching Aldervale United play out
a drab 0–0 draw against Wealdstone. Our fan base isn’t huge so most of the
die-hards know one another well enough that we can congregate in the pub
after a game and drown our collective sorrows. On the evening in question,
I found myself at the bar next to Rick Bingley, one-time Chairman of the
supporters club. While waiting to be served, we discussed the game and our
respective views on yet another awful season. Rick then invited me to join
him and a couple of other fans, and continue our conversation.
After sinking my pint and venting about the lack of quality in the
Aldervale midfield, one of the other fans asked if I wanted another beer. I
made some throwaway remark that I shouldn’t because my wife was
already in a bad mood after three unsuccessful job applications in as many
days. Rick then piped up and asked what kind of job Chloe was hoping to
find. Apparently, the company he worked for, Loxford Commercial
Furniture, desperately needed to recruit a payroll clerk. As luck would have
it, Chloe had experience in a similar role, and the head of the finance
department happened to be an old schoolmate of Rick’s.
 Four days and one interview later, Chloe accepted the job of part-time
payroll clerk at Loxford Commercial Furniture. She was so chuffed, and so
was I. Indeed, I bought Rick a bottle of whisky as a thank you for making
the introduction to Chloe’s new boss, Danny. At the time, it seemed like
there was some truth in the old saying that it’s not what you know but who
you know.
As the months rolled by, life was pretty good. Chloe relished her new
responsibility and sense of purpose, and enjoyed being someone other than
Finn’s mummy for a few hours a day. The extra money also meant we could
spoil ourselves a bit. We took Finn to Lapland at Christmas, and in March
of this year, Chloe’s parents looked after Finn while we enjoyed a romantic
weekend in Paris. As we strolled hand-in-hand along the Champs-Élysées,
taking in the early spring sunshine, I was blissfully unaware what fate had
in store for me. It was probably the last time I was truly happy and worry-
free.
Sitting here now, next to a woman I no longer recognise as the woman I
married, while our son undergoes therapy for a problem we likely caused, I
wonder if I’ll ever be that happy again.
The optimist might argue I’ve reached rock bottom and there’s only one
way left to go. I’m no optimist, though, and I fear rock bottom might be a
destination rather than a stop-off point.
 3
With Finn watching a cartoon on my phone, I lean over and double-
check his seatbelt.
“I’m just going to have a quick word with Mummy, and then we’ll head
home, okay?”
His eyes don’t leave the screen.
I shut the car door and turn to Chloe. Not wanting to start another
argument in front of our son, I’ve kept my mouth shut since we left Dr
Goodwin’s office.
“I can’t believe you’re not coming home,” I snap. “What’s the point of
returning to the office for barely an hour?”
“I’ve got stuff to do, Jake.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I thought we could sit down and discuss
Finn’s first session.”
“We will as soon as I get home. I won’t be long.”
“As always, the job comes before your husband and son.”
“That’s unfair, and you know it. It’s my job that’s currently paying the
mortgage and all our other bills.”
“Don’t I know it,” I snort. “You remind me every bloody day.”
Chloe rolls her eyes. “Don’t start again.”
“Me? You’re the one pissing off to work while I’m trying to fix our
problems.”
“No, you’re not trying to fix anything. You want to prolong the agony
and wallow in your victimhood.”
“It might have escaped your attention, but I am the victim, as is Finn. We
never asked for any of this. You caused it!”
Like so many arguments of late, we’re back at the beginning — the very
definition of a vicious, sometimes spiteful, circle.
“I’ll see you later, Jake.”
Without another word, Chloe turns on her heels and strides away.
Seething, I get in the car and try to put on a happy face for Finn. He’s still
watching his cartoon, oblivious to the toxic exchange that just took place
between his parents.
 “What do you fancy for dinner, mate?” I ask, more in hope than
expectation.
Nothing.
“I fancy fish fingers and spaghetti hoops. Sound good to you?”
He nods.
I start the car and set off on the journey home. The ten-minute drive is a
good opportunity to work through the latest argument with my wife and
pick at the same scabs I can’t seem to leave alone — the rawest of those
being Chloe’s job.
Barely a month after we returned from our Paris trip, I received a
telephone call from my line manager at work. He gravely confirmed that the
company had decided to move our department overseas, and all the UK
staff were being made redundant. The severance package wasn’t bad, and I
thought that I’d be able to secure a similar job within a few weeks. I even
hoped we could spend a chunk of my windfall on a family holiday or
maybe upgrade the car. After a month of job hunting, it became clear that
there were very few opportunities in my sector, and the available jobs
offered a significantly lower salary than the one I’d lost.
Then, fate intervened again, and Chloe’s boss quit. They offered Chloe
the payroll manager’s job, but there was a significant catch — she’d have to
work full-time. The company car and sizeable wage rise softened the blow
and with no luck in my job search, we agreed to switch roles temporarily.
Chloe would become the primary wage earner while I continued to look for
a position similar to the one I’d lost. In the meantime, I had to make up the
shortfall in our household income by taking any job available, as long as it
allowed me to work around Finn’s impending first term at school. Only one
job opportunity came close to meeting that requirement, which is why I’m
now stuck at TechWorld.
What I hadn’t factored in when I agreed to the switch in roles was how
quickly I’d lose all sense of self-respect. Without ever realising it, it’s so
easy to become the job you do — it becomes your identity. I was Jake
Mason: team leader, IT expert, breadwinner, and role model. Now, I don’t
know who I am, but I don’t much like this version of me. Nor do I like what
my wife has become since she returned her focus to a career. That in itself
was never the crux of our problem, though. No, her job only created the
circumstances for the real problem in our marriage.
 I pull into the driveway beside our house. Finn is still staring at the phone
screen.
“Home, sweet home, mate. You can finish your cartoon later.”
He taps the screen and passes the phone over. I then grab his school bag
from the back seat, and we head inside number fourteen, Norton Rise. It
really isn’t as sweet a home as it was when we bought it eighteen months
ago; not by some margin. We deliberately searched for a three-bedroom
house so we could eventually add a fourth member to our family, but that
dream has now fallen by the wayside.
“Take your bag up to your room, mate, and then get changed, please.”
Finn does as he’s told without comment. I’d be delighted if he’d
complained; I really would. I loiter in the hallway until I hear his bedroom
door close. Then, straining to hear what he’s actually saying, I listen in as
my son chatters away to his imaginary friend. We were told that it’s
perfectly normal for kids with selective mutism to hold conversations in
private, with a figment of their own imagination, but I don’t think I’ll ever
feel as comfortable with it as Finn now seems to be.
Unable to make much sense of my son’s words, I traipse through to the
kitchen and switch the oven on. Most days, Chloe returns home before six
o’clock so we eat at the kitchen table together, but there’s no way she’ll be
home before six today. I’m not prepared to postpone our dinner for the sake
of my wife’s bloody-mindedness.
Almost two hours later, with Finn fed, bathed, and tucked up on the sofa
watching TV, his mother arrives home. She steps into the lounge, kisses
Finn on the head and apologises for being later than she anticipated. I don’t
say a word when she offers to take our son up to bed and read him a story.
In an almost robotic fashion, Finn stands in front of me so I can administer
a goodnight kiss.
“Night, buddy. Sleep tight.”
Finn then follows Chloe into the hallway and up the stairs. I sit and listen
to the one-way conversation until it peters out. My wife is a creature of
habit, so once she’s finished her parental duties, she’ll grab a five-minute
shower before coming down to eat. The kitchen, being the furthest room
from Finn’s bedroom, is now our de facto battleground. It’s also the only
place in the house with a ready supply of alcohol, and I need a beer.
With a can of Stella in hand, I make myself comfortable at the kitchen
table and wait for Chloe. The can is almost empty by the time she saunters
in, her coppery hair still damp from the shower.
“Is there any point in saying sorry for being late?” she asks while
opening the fridge.
“Not really.”
She pulls out a ready meal, stabs the cellophane cover with a fork, and
throws it in the microwave. My wife then sits at the table opposite me.
“Okay. Can we have a civilised conversation about our son, please?” she
asks, wearily.
“I wanted a civilised conversation two hours ago, but you fucked off
back to work, remember?”
“What do you want me to do, Jake? Shall I tell my boss I can’t do the job
anymore because my husband thinks it’s the reason our marriage is falling
apart?”
“It’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“You know it’s not. We were fine before … the job isn’t the issue, and
unless we can get past the real problem, I can’t see how this ends well for
either of us.”
“Maybe I’m not ready to get past it.”
“Fine, but you heard what Dr Goodwin said — the toxicity of our
relationship is almost certainly the reason why our son hasn’t spoken a
bloody word to us in weeks.”
“So, it’s my fault because I’m still angry? Don’t you think I’m entitled to
be angry still?”
“Of course you are, and I no doubt deserve it, but Finn doesn’t. He’s the
one we’re hurting, Jake.”
I know she’s right, but I’m in such a dark place I can’t bring myself to
say as much. Chloe takes my silence as a cue to continue.
“Have you thought any more about Dr Goodwin’s suggestion?”
“That we see a relationship counsellor?”
“Yes.”
“It’d be a waste of time.”
“How can you say that?”
“Listen, we both know why we were sitting in front of a therapist this
afternoon, and we both know why our marriage is in crisis. I don’t need
some overpaid shrink telling me what the problem is — I already know.”
“Jesus wept,” Chloe groans. “Their job is to fix problems. Do you know
how to fix ours?”
 The microwave beeps three times. Chloe gets to her feet, her question
unanswered.
I’d never tell my wife, but I honestly don’t know how to fix our marriage
or even if it can be fixed. They say time is a healer but surely it requires a
willing patient, and I don’t know if I want to be healed yet. In my head, I’ve
connected my suffering to Chloe’s feelings of guilt, and seven weeks isn’t
adequate penance for what she did. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it.
My wife returns to the table, placing the plastic tray on a mat.
“What did you and Finn have?” she asks.
“Fish fingers and spaghetti hoops.”
She takes a mouthful of food and grimaces. Based on the scent alone, I’d
guess it’s beef casserole.
“I’ll speak to Danny,” she then says without looking up. “See if there’s
any way I can cut back my hours a bit or at least get some extra help so I
can work the hours I’m contracted to work.”
Danny is a director at Loxford’s and Chloe’s boss.
“What good will that do?”
“It means I’ll be home a bit more than I am now. If we’ve any hope of
getting our lives back on track, we need to spend more time together.”
“Funny, because I thought we might benefit from some time apart.”
Chloe’s head snaps up.
“What do you mean?”
It’s an empty threat, but it allows me to wrestle back some control — a
minor repair to my shattered dignity. If I genuinely wanted to leave, I’d
have gone weeks ago.
“Nothing,” I mumble. “Ignore me.”
“No, come on. What did you mean?”
I get up and fetch another beer. I can tell by the look in Chloe’s eye that
she still wants an answer.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I say. “I’m tired.”
“You can’t say something like that and then shut me out. That’s not fair.”
“Oh, so it’s okay for you to shut me out, yet every time I ask you what
happened that night, you refuse to talk about it.”
“Please, let’s not go there again.”
“See,” I snort.
“For the thousandth time, Jake, I don’t want to talk about it. It won’t do
either of us any good.”
 “You don’t know that. It might help me understand.”
“It won’t. Trust me.”
I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve had this same conversation. It
always starts the same way and inevitably ends the same way — voices
raised, hurtful words exchanged, and one of us completely loses our temper,
usually me.
All I want to know is the truth, the exact details of the event that set us on
this path.
 SEVEN WEEKS AGO …
Ten minutes after emptying my bladder, I’m close to falling asleep
again. That is until Finn charges into our bedroom and jumps on the bed.
“Daddy! Wake up!”
I blink at my watch: 7.38 am.
“Mate, it’s … way too early to be up on a Saturday.”
“I’m hungry. Is it breakfast time?”
With his hair sticking out in every direction and a mischievous glint in
his eye, it’s impossible to be annoyed with my son, despite him gate-
crashing my lie-in.
“Can I have a good morning hug first?” I rasp, sitting up against the
headboard.
He grins and then wraps his arms around my neck.
“Thank you. What would you like for breakfast?”
“Um … toasty soldiers?”
“Come on then.”
I lift him off the bed, and he darts away while I’m still struggling to get
into my dressing gown. Maybe I missed the chapter in the parenting
handbook warning of kids’ energy levels at such an ungodly hour.
Finn is already at the table by the time I trudge into the kitchen, the TV
on.
“What are you watching?” I ask.
“Bubble Guppies.”
“Oh.”
I’ve no idea.
My son might be hungry, but his father has priorities of his own. I switch
the kettle on and spoon coffee granules into a mug before prepping Finn’s
breakfast.
“When is Mummy coming home?” he asks.
“Soon, hopefully.”
“Where is she?”
“I told you. She went to a conference last night and stayed in a hotel.”
He ponders my reply for a moment. “What’s a con-fence, Daddy?”
 “It’s when a group of grown-ups get together to talk about very boring
work stuff.”
“Where is Mummy’s con-fence?”
“A place called Southampton.”
“Is it very far away?”
Whatever his pre-school nursery teachers taught Finn, I doubt they
covered UK geography or logistics. I answer accordingly.
“It’s not too far away, no.”
Since Chloe took on the payroll manager’s role at Loxford’s, there’s been
a noticeable shift in her employer’s demands. As a part-time clerk, she
turned up in the morning, did what was asked of her, and left three hours
later. The six-monthly conference is just one of the new commitments
Chloe is expected to make. It wasn’t that long ago that my diary was littered
with career commitments. Now, I’m at home making toasty soldiers.
“Can we go to the park when Mummy gets home?”
“If you’re a good boy, and Mummy isn’t too hungover.”
“What’s hungover?”
“Nothing you need to worry about for a while,” I chuckle. “But it’s like a
special headache grown-ups get when they drink too much grape juice.”
Satisfied with my answer, Finn returns his attention to Bubble Guppies.
I’m glad I don’t have a special headache this morning — kids’ TV shows
are so bloody loud.
An hour later, we’re sitting in the lounge, trying to turn a pile of Lego
bricks into something resembling the image on the box. It’s not going well,
but Finn seems content creating his own version of a helicopter. I leave him
to it and wander back to the kitchen in need of another coffee.
As I wait for the kettle to boil, I check my phone. There’s a message from
Chloe that simply reads: Leaving soon. Be back before eleven xx.
I thought Chloe would be back early so we could take Finn to the park, as
we do most Saturday mornings. Not only did we lose a Friday evening as a
family, but now we can kiss goodbye to half the day today. More annoyed
than I should be, I stare out of the window at our small garden.
“Bloody typical,” I mumble.
Even though we’re in August, there’s no blue sky or sunshine. Pale-grey
clouds have coalesced to produce a dull outlook, both in terms of view and
weather. Judging by the gloomy vista, I suspect we’re in for drizzle sooner
rather than later.
 I return to the lounge with a mug of coffee and inspect Finn’s handiwork.
“Looking good, mate.”
“It’s a toppy chopper,” he announces, proudly.
“I like it. It’s cool.”
It looks nothing like the helicopter on the box, but Finn seems pleased
with it. However, I can probably strike aviation engineer from his list of
potential careers.
With nothing else better to do, and stuck in limbo until Chloe returns, I
switch the TV on and ask Finn what film he fancies.
“SpongeBob Movie,” he squeals, clapping his hands together.
“Again? How many times have you watched it?”
“A squillion billion.”
“Well, I guess one more won’t hurt, just while we’re waiting for
Mummy.”
I slide the well-worn DVD into the player, and we settle back on the sofa.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy SpongeBob’s antics the first time around,
but I reckon I know every line in the film now. Still, with Finn engrossed, I
can check the Aldervale United fans’ forum to see if there’s any last-minute
transfer news ahead of this afternoon’s first match of the new season.
As is often the case, I become embroiled in a heated thread regarding one
of our worst players from last season and the news that he’s signed a new
two-year contract. I’m so engrossed in the debate, I don’t notice the time
until the front door slams shut. Chloe then appears in the doorway.
“Mummy!” Finn yells while clambering off the sofa.
I check the time. It’s just gone eleven.
“Can we go to the park now, Mummy?”
Chloe looks exhausted, but she finds a smile. “Sure. Go get your trainers
on.”
As Finn zips away, I stand up and greet my wife with a hug.
“You okay?” I ask. “You look knackered.”
“I’m fine. Maybe I had one glass of Prosecco too many last night.”
“Suffering a bit, are we?”
“I’ll live, but I didn’t want to risk driving at half-seven this morning.
Sorry.”
“No harm done, and if it’s any consolation, I don’t think we’ll be at the
park long. Looks like it might piss down any minute.”
“We’d better get going, then.”
 Chloe deposits her night bag in the hallway, and Finn reappears with his
trainers on, untied.
“I can’t do my laces, Daddy,” he complains. “They’re too lacey.”
“We’ll have another practise later. Pop yourself down on the stair.”
Once I’ve tied Finn’s laces, we depart.
One of the attractions of our house is the proximity to Greendale Park,
only a two-minute walk away. It’s not huge, but there’s a duck pond, a
grassy area dotted with mature trees, plus a fenced play park with slides,
swings, a large climbing frame, and a timber-built fort. Finn loves it, but
I’ve spent way too many hours sitting on a bench while he has fun. Again,
the parenting handbook failed to warn me about the sheer number of hours
I’d lose to boredom as my offspring plays. At least there are two of us
today, so we can chat while our son burns off some energy.
As soon as we pass through the main gates, Finn dashes towards the gate
of the play park. If he’s disappointed there are only a handful of other kids
to play with, it doesn’t show. I open the gate, and he runs off while we take
a seat on a vacant bench.
Back in the days when we had a social life, whenever we met strangers at
a party, Chloe was always the chatty one. She can talk about absolutely
anything with anyone. I, on the other hand, struggle to make small talk
unless there’s a common subject I can complain about, like the weather, the
economy, or the latest reality show on TV. This morning, Chloe is far from
her usual chatty self.
“Are you sure you’re okay, babe? You’ve barely said a word since we left
the house.”
“I didn’t sleep well. You know what it’s like in a strange bed, and the
alcohol didn’t help.”
“Why don’t you go home and grab a nap, then?”
She shuffles along the bench and leans up against my shoulder. “No, I’d
rather be here with you and Finn.”
“Okay. We won’t stay for long.”
“It’s fine, honestly. Maybe the fresh air will help.”
I can only guess, but I reckon Chloe had more than one too many, and
very little sleep at all. Being her first conference with a new company, I
suppose she was keen to impress otherwise she’d have snuck off to bed
straight after dinner. I’ve been there myself, although I don’t remember my
wife lavishing me with sympathy.
 We settle into a comfortable silence, punctuated every few minutes as
Finn requests we watch him perform some new manoeuvre on the climbing
frame. We take turns to offer praise, albeit muted on Chloe’s part.
After a while, boredom sets in. I’m tempted to pull out my phone when
Chloe’s rings. She pulls it from her pocket and checks the screen.
“It’s my boss,” she says, wearily. “I’d better answer it.”
I reply with a smile, knowing I can now temper my boredom with
another check on the Aldervale United fans’ forum.
Chloe gets to her feet and opens the gate so she can take the call without
the background noise of kids playing. With the phone to her ear, she comes
to a stop by the edge of the duck pond, some thirty yards away. I unlock my
phone and tap through to the forum.
I’m halfway through a post about team selection when Finn suddenly
yells a pained cry. I look up to see him crossing the grass towards me; his
little face racked with pain. I leap up from the bench.
“What’s the matter?” I blurt.
“I’ve … I’ve cut my hand,” he blubbers. “It stings.”
I glance across to the pond where Chloe now has her back to us. It looks
like I’m on nurse duty.
“Come here,” I say, softly. “Let me have a look.”
I squat down and take Finn’s wrist. The cut is barely a graze, and I
suspect the shock of falling over hurt more than the minor skin abrasion.
“It’s only a little graze, mate. Nothing to worry about.”
“I need a sticky plaster to make it better.”
“Okay, well, we’ll have to go home and get one.”
“Mummy has plasters in her bag,” he replies, pointing to the bench where
Chloe’s bag is sitting, unguarded.
“Come on then. Let’s get you fixed.”
I sit Finn on the bench and then peer into my wife’s handbag. A cursory
search reveals everything but a box of plasters.
“I don’t think there are any plasters in here,” I remark. “We’ll have to
wait for Mummy to finish her phone call, and then we can ask her.”
“In the purse,” Finn suggests. “That’s where she keeps them.”
“Oh, okay.”
I pluck Chloe’s purse from the handbag and unfasten the clasp. Her bank
and store cards are lined up on one side with a section for her driving
licence on the other. Behind that, there’s a compartment for banknotes and
the most likely place to find a plaster. I unzip it.
“Ah-ha. Got one.”
I pull out the one remaining plaster, but in my haste, a random store
receipt comes with it. I’m about to tuck it back into the purse when I notice
the logo printed at the top: Hedge End Pharmacy.
It’s not a pharmacy in Aldervale, and that almost insignificant fact is the
only reason I don’t immediately put the receipt back in Chloe’s purse.
“Daddy. Hurry up, it stings.”
“Eh? Oh, sorry.”
I tuck the receipt in my pocket, so it doesn’t blow away and then apply
the plaster to Finn’s palm. Seemingly happy with my triage skills, he races
over to the climbing frame. I watch him for a few minutes, but my attention
then drifts back to the receipt in my pocket. What Chloe purchased from a
pharmacy is none of my business, and most husbands wouldn’t dare to
check their wife’s purchases, but I’m not most husbands.
When I was a teenager I went through a few years of suffering with acute
hypochondria. During those years, I presumed the worst whenever I
suffered a headache or trapped wind, and although I’m nowhere near as bad
as I was back then, Finn’s birth seemed to reactivate my inner pessimist.
I could wait and ask Chloe what the problem is, but that same devilish
voice that used to whisper in my ear is now asking what might be wrong
with my wife.
Suddenly, I’m no longer sitting in a park, but standing next to a
headstone etched with Chloe’s name, a tearful child clutching my hand and
crying because no one took his mummy’s ailment seriously enough.
I don’t want to know what might be wrong with my wife, but I need to
know.
After checking Chloe is still on the phone, I unfold the receipt and check
the date and time she made the purchase: today, at 9.44 am. Below that,
there are two items listed. The first is a bottle of mineral water, and the
second is something called ellaOne. I’ve no idea what ellaOne is.
I open my phone and google the name. Within a split second, a page of
results loads and in bold text at the top is the answer I sought — ellaOne is
the most effective morning-after pill available.
“Daddy!” Finn yells. “Look at me!”
 I glance up. He’s hanging from the monkey bars, his legs dangling a foot
from the ground. It’s all I can do to respond with a nod and a pained smile.
“Well done,” I mutter before returning my attention to the receipt. The
facts remain unchanged — at 9.44 am this morning, while I was playing
Lego with our son, Chloe visited a chemist to purchase the morning-after
pill. That fact is compounded by several others. We haven’t had sex since
the weekend before last, and as we’ve been trying for another baby for
almost two years, my wife hasn’t used contraceptives of any kind. Even if
she’d decided to go back on the pill without telling me, why would she
purchase the morning-after pill?
The obvious and damning answer is in the name. It’s called the morning-
after pill because it’s usually taken the morning after sex.
My throat thickens, and the world around me blurs from focus. A
dizzying wave of nausea then arrives. Placing my head in my hands, I pull
sharp breaths to keep the worst at bay, but such is the gravity of my
discovery, I’ve no hope of remaining calm.
“Jake? Are you alright?”
I’m so detached from reality I hadn’t noticed Chloe step through the gate.
She’s now standing over me, her face racked with concern.
“No … I’m not.”
She sits down next to me.
“What’s the matter?”
I look up, into my wife’s eyes. We’ve been together for a decade, and I
know every line on her face, every freckle.
“Why, Chloe?” I sniff, slapping the pharmacy receipt on the bench. “Why
did you fuck another man last night?”
There’s nowhere for her to hide, no time to concoct a story. She knows
her own expression has betrayed her.
Chloe slowly closes her eyes and mouths two words. “God, no.”
I wait for an answer, and despite the evidence and my wife’s reaction, I’d
give anything for her to tell me it’s all one big misunderstanding.
She opens her eyes.
“I’m so, so sorry, Jake,” she says, tearfully. “It meant nothing.”
 4
I stand at the school gates and watch Finn with another boy. I don’t
know his name, but he has a mop of red hair and a cheeky grin. From my
vantage point, I can see my son’s lips moving, and then they curl into a
smile. It’s so good to see his smile and to know Finn’s mutism doesn’t
extend to his school friends, but from my perspective, it stings. It seems my
son is willing to chat away to a kid he’s only known a matter of weeks, but
he refuses to talk to his mother or me.
The bell rings, and the kids flock to their respective classrooms. Within a
minute, the playground is silent, empty — now a patch of dull tarmac
devoid of colour and sound and activity. It could be a metaphor for my life.
Wearily, I trudge to the car and set off towards the Inchgate Retail Park
and another day at TechWorld.
As I drive, my mind drifts back to last night’s conversation at the kitchen
table. Even the dreamiest optimist would concede it didn’t end well, but
most conversations in the Mason household rarely do these days. At best,
we typically reach a stalemate and spend the evening in a stiff silence. At
our worst, we hiss and spit like tomcats fighting in the garden at night.
Either way, it’s an undignified way to behave, but the only way we seem to
communicate these days is negatively.
Of course, counselling was the topic festering on the agenda for most of
the evening. Chloe claimed it might help, but I insisted it would be a waste
of time. In my opinion, the only way I can get past my anger is to aim it in
another direction, away from my wife. To do that, I need the one snippet of
information she steadfastly refuses to reveal — the name of the man she
slept with.
In the weeks after I discovered Chloe’s infidelity, I demanded to know
his name, but no matter how many times I asked, she point-blank refused. I
then resorted to self-flagellation in the form of some pretty twisted
questions. I asked her if she enjoyed shagging another man, if she came and
how many times. I asked if he had a better body, a bigger cock. I wanted to
know how long it lasted, how many times they fucked, and what positions
they tried. Chloe refused to answer any of my questions, and that only
fuelled my anger. In my mind, her silence meant only one thing. Yes, he had
a better body, a bigger cock, and he satisfied her in ways I never have.
Until my wife is willing to admit she preferred sex with another man, and
who that man is, no amount of counselling will save our marriage.
I get to work and head straight for the staffroom. Most of my colleagues
are already on the shop floor, but my shift doesn’t officially start until 9.00
am.
With time to kill, I make a coffee and flick through Facebook. It’s the
usual feast of adverts and mindless drivel, but one post catches my eye.
Added yesterday, it’s a photo of Ron Mason, my dad, and his third wife,
Melanie. They’re at a poolside bar, sipping cocktails.
I haven’t spoken to my dad since August and although he only lives ten
miles away, we haven’t seen one another since his birthday back in June.
Not to put too fine a point on it, our relationship is as strained as it is
sporadic. Maybe things would be different if he hadn’t walked out on us
when I was only a six-year-old kid.
I’m still processing how I feel about Dad’s photo when Troy pokes his
head around the staffroom door.
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs?” he asks, tapping his watch.
“Not yet. I’ve got a few minutes.”
“Clock watchers rarely get far in a career, you know?”
“Gosh, really?” I reply with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Are you saying
that all I have to do is start work a bit earlier, and one day I might become
the customer service supervisor?”
“It’s better than being a customer service assistant,” he sneers back.
“And I don’t think you’re in a position to mock anyone’s career, are you,
Jake?”
For once, Troy is right.
“Whatever,” I sigh. “Irrespective of my position now, I’m not stuck here
for good, unlike you.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. After a successful interview yesterday, I’ve
been offered the assistant manager’s position at the Woking branch.”
For possibly the first time in the three months I’ve worked at TechWorld,
Troy has said something that I’m pleased to hear. It’s a pity I can’t avoid the
accompanying smugness, but not for much longer, it seems.
“Congratulations,” I reply with zero sincerity. “When are you leaving?”
 “Within the next few days, but in the meantime, I’m still your supervisor,
and it’s now 8.59 am. I’d hurry downstairs if I were you. I’d hate to mark
you as late.”
He wouldn’t hate it. He’d relish it.
Troy taps his watch again for good measure and then hurries off to annoy
another of his colleagues. I, with limited enthusiasm, place my mug in the
sink and head down to the shop floor.
“Morning, Jake,” Ash beams as I step behind the counter. “How are you
doing?”
“Actually, I detest the world slightly less than I did five minutes ago. Did
you know Troy is leaving?”
“Oh, I didn’t, no. When?”
“Very soon, apparently. He’s heading to the Woking branch as assistant
manager.”
“That’s good news.”
“Not for the poor bastards in Woking, it’s not.”
Ash tries to stifle a snort of laughter. I have no issue sharing my disdain
for Troy, but Ash is too nice for his own good. I’ve never heard him utter a
negative word about any of his colleagues, and frankly, I find that a bit
weird.
My six-hour shift comes and goes in a blur of tedium and frustration. The
job is mind-numbingly boring most of the time, apart from the periods
where I’m being bothered by a customer with yet another mindless question
or unwarranted gripe.
I bid goodbye to the ever-chipper Ash and depart. Then, it’s the same
routine as I hurry across town to Finn’s school and loiter outside his
classroom with the other parents. After three minutes of avoiding eye
contact, the door opens. For once, my son is positioned near the front of the
queue, the red-haired lad he was chatting to earlier by his side. They swap
smiles, and the other lad scoots towards his mother while Finn ambles over,
his smile dissolving the moment he sets eyes on me.
“Did you have a good day, mate?” I ask, trying to channel my inner-Ash.
He nods and then waves towards the red-haired lad as his mother leads
him away.
“Who’s your new friend?”
No response.
 As I take Finn’s hand and we walk back to the car, I question how much
longer I can put up with the myriad problems blighting my life. If only I
could untangle the mess and address one of those problems, it might free up
enough head space so I can deal with the rest.
On the drive home, I try to break down my options. Finn’s mutism is
unlikely to resolve itself as long as his parents remain at loggerheads, and I
can’t see how we can resolve our differences in the short term. That leaves
me with just one problem that might be more easily solved: my career, or
lack of one. Part of the problem is that I’ve lost any sense of self-worth. In
my previous job, I thrived on the responsibility and pressure, but my only
responsibility at TechWorld is turning up on time and getting through the
day without physically assaulting the customers. As for pressure, there
simply isn’t any. Now I think about it, is it any wonder I find the job so
mind-numbingly boring?
By the time I unlock the front door, I have the vaguest notion of how I
might nudge my life in the right direction. It would be the tiniest step
forward, but anything is better than my current mire.
After sitting with Finn while he watches TV for an hour, I start prepping
dinner. As I’m measuring out pasta, the front door opens and shuts. Chloe
enters the kitchen an hour earlier than she usually graces us with her
presence.
“Fire at the office?” I ask.
“You wish,” she retorts. “But, no.”
“Why are you home so early, then?”
She places her bag on the table, and I catch her glancing back towards the
hallway. It wasn’t that long ago that Finn would charge towards the front
door the second he heard Chloe’s key in the lock.
“How’s he been?” she asks.
“No change at home, but I think he’s made a new friend at school.”
“A real one, or another imaginary one?”
“Flesh and bone. They were chatting in the playground this morning
before class, and they seemed thick as thieves at the end of the day.”
“I guess that’s progress.”
“Of sorts,” I mumble. “Why are you home early, anyway?”
“I told Danny I need to spend a bit more time at home.”
“You implied the place would grind to a halt without you.”
 “That’s not what I said. I just explained our … situation with Danny, and
that I needed to find a bit more work/life balance. He’s got a young child
himself, so he agreed to cut me some slack.”
“And what about lover boy? Won’t he miss you if you cut back your
hours?”
Stark lines cut across my wife’s forehead.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Jake? It was a one-off, never to
be repeated mistake … on both our parts.”
“So you say, but do you have any idea how it makes me feel, knowing
you spend the lion’s share of the day in an office with a man you screwed
seven weeks ago?”
“Fine,” she groans. “I’ll quit, shall I?”
She knows that’s not an option, and so do I. To avoid going around in
circles, I turn my attention to the pasta, leaving Chloe’s question hanging.
Silent seconds pass.
“Can I do anything?” she asks in a conciliatory tone.
“It’s all under control.”
She steps over to the hob and stands next to me. “I came home early
because I want to get back what we had before. And, as Finn’s therapist
said, some normality might encourage him out of his shell.”
“Right.”
“So, I thought we could have dinner together and then watch a movie. I
bought that popcorn you like.”
“Can’t. United are at home tonight.”
“It’s not on the calendar.”
“It’s a Cup replay.”
Chloe’s shoulders slump. “Can’t you skip it for once?”
“Why should I? It wasn’t me who fucked up, so why should I change my
plans on a whim because you managed to get out of work at a reasonable
time?”
My wife shakes her head and mutters something under her breath.
Conversation over, she heads to the lounge for a one-way conversation with
Finn.
“Fuck’s sake,” I growl, slamming the lid on the pan.
I know I’m being an arsehole, and I hate myself for doing it, but I just
can’t seem to stop the destructive behaviour. Part of me wants to follow
Chloe into the lounge and tell her I’ll skip tonight’s match, but there’s
another force in play, and it won’t let me make even the smallest
concession. Every time I come close to waving the white flag, an image
drifts into my mind. It’s more a montage of scenes than a single image; a
graphic depiction of my wife’s infidelity. It’s as if my own imagination
wants to sabotage any chance of reconciliation because as soon as I
visualise my naked wife rolling around in bed with another man, the anger
and resentment boil up in my chest.
I didn’t tell Chloe, but the main reason I need to watch tonight’s game is
because it’s the only outlet for the anger and the resentment. If not for the
opportunity to vent for ninety minutes once a week, my head would likely
explode.
No, I don’t have to go to the football. I need to go.
 5
Formed in 1929, Aldervale United must have the most underwhelming
history of any football club in England. For the first sixty-odd years, the
club languished in the old fourth division of the football league —
essentially, the bottom rung of the ladder in the professional game. They did
achieve promotion to division three on two occasions but were
subsequently relegated back to division four the following season.
I attended my first match at the age of ten, accompanied by my granddad,
Tom. By that point, Aldervale United had suffered the ignominy of
relegation from the football league and were officially a non-league team.
My granddad — a fan for almost sixty years — only had one dream, and
that was to see his beloved team play at Wembley. He died when I was
seventeen, his dream unfulfilled.
Twenty-two years on from that first match and, despite the odd flirtation
with the playoffs, we’re still in the same division. We’ve still never played
at Wembley.
United’s ground is only a twenty-minute walk from our house, so I rarely
ever drive. I prefer evening games under floodlight, particularly in the
autumn months; the air is crisp, but the biting cold of winter is still some
way off.
I reach the turnstiles and queue up. I say queue up, but there’s only two
other fans in front of me. Once I’ve handed over a twenty-pound note, I
make my way to the North Stand, my preferred vantage point since
Granddad first led me up the steps all those years ago.
It’s only ten minutes until kick-off, and the ground is barely a third full.
With Champions League matches on TV and our current form woeful, only
the real die-hards have ventured out tonight. That said, it’s hard to imagine
why anyone would want to spend their evening at Gipton Park, home of
Aldervale United. Some might call it a proper, old-fashioned football
ground, but most call it what it is: a shithole. As the ground is owned by the
local council, it’s suffered from years of underinvestment and wholesale
neglect. Whilst most of the clubs we play regularly have moved to shiny,
purpose-built stadia, Gipton Park continues to rot away. There’s been talk of
a new ground but that would involve millions of pounds the club doesn’t
have — they can’t even afford to fix the plumbing in the main toilet block
or the leaky guttering that runs along the cowshed-style stands.
Yes, Gipton Park is a shithole, but I’d rather be here this evening than at
home.
Tonight’s opposition are Chelmsford City, and they play in the division
below Aldervale United. On paper, we should win this FA Cup replay
without too much trouble, even though we only managed a 0–0 draw at
Chelmsford’s ground.
The match kicks off, and, predictably, we’re dreadful. Chelmsford score
on eleven minutes, and again after thirty-eight minutes. We miss a penalty.
As the half-time whistle blows, a chorus of boos follows our players
down the tunnel. I trudge from the stand to the catering hut. Alcohol would
be appropriate, but I’ll have to settle for Bovril in a polystyrene cup.
Whatever our hapless manager said in the dressing room at half-time, the
early minutes of the second half suggests it might bear fruit. Our players
move the ball around with a bit more zip, and Chelmsford’s goalkeeper
makes a couple of saves. In the fifty-ninth minute, we get a goal back when
our much-maligned midfielder, Luke Somner, scores a cracking volley from
twenty yards out.
In the minutes after our goal, the small crowd becomes increasingly
vocal as we sense an equaliser. Then, Aldervale does the most Aldervale of
things — just as we’re getting on top, we shoot ourselves in the foot. In this
instance, Luke Somner goes from hero to villain by getting himself sent off
in the sixty-eighth minute. The extra man buoys Chelmsford, and ten
minutes before the full-time whistle, they score a third goal.
Game over.
I watch for another seven or eight minutes to see if our players launch a
late rally. They don’t, and with two minutes left, I rip up my ticket and
stomp up the steps towards the exit. Not that I expected much, but our run
in the FA Cup is over before it even began. Different season, same familiar
disappointment.
As I hurry towards the main gates, I’m joined by a number of other glum-
faced fans who’ve also seen enough and can’t bear to watch our opponents
celebrate. As I reach the gates, someone calls my name. I stop and turn
around, unsure if I’m the Jake being hailed.
“Alright, mate?” Rick Bingley asks, jogging towards me. “I thought it
was you.”
 “How are you doing, Rick, if that isn’t a stupid question?”
“Pissed off, to put it mildly.”
Since that evening in The White Horse when Rick first mentioned there
might be a job opportunity for Chloe at Loxford’s, we’ve shared the odd
pint and a chat, although I wouldn’t go as far as to say we’re best buddies.
“You off to The White Horse?” he asks.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Can I twist your arm? I need a pint and don’t want to stand at the bar
like Billy No-Mates.”
I check the time. Chloe goes to bed at ten, and by the time I get home,
she’ll be brushing her teeth and putting on her pyjamas. Neither of us is
likely in the mood for a goodnight kiss.
“Yeah, why not.”
“Good man.”
We walk on, and inevitably, the conversation begins with a post-mortem
of Aldervale’s defeat.
“I can’t believe they gave that muppet, Somner, a two-year contract. The
bloke is a liability,” Rick moans.
“Cracking goal, though.”
“That’s the problem with Somner. When he’s good, he’s brilliant, but
how often does he turn it on? When he’s not getting into trouble with the
ref, he’s standing around with his hands on his hips; the lazy bastard.”
“True, but he’s not the only one out of form. We might as well have
played with four mannequins at the back.”
We continue venting all the way to the bar of The White Horse. Rick
orders two pints of lager, and we grab a table before our fellow fans pitch
up in number to drown their sorrows.
“I suppose we’ve still got the FA Trophy match at the end of the month,”
Rick remarks with more optimism than our prospects deserve.
“We’ll probably lose in the first round to the Dog & Duck. Based upon
this evening’s performance, our lot couldn’t even beat a pub team.”
“Sadly, mate, I think you’re right.”
We both gulp from our glasses, and then Rick excuses himself.
“Just nipping to the bog. Won’t be a tick.”
I watch him stride away, but then he spots another Aldervale fan playing
the fruit machine. Rick stops and slaps the other man on the back, and the
two men chat briefly.
 I’m not sure how old Rick is, but I’d guess he’s north of forty. With a
shaved head, small eyes, and stocky build, if you put him in a suit and stood
him outside a nightclub, he’d look every bit the typical bouncer, albeit one
with a not insignificant paunch. During one of our previous post-match
chats, Rick told me that he spends ninety-five per cent of his time on the
road and that every time he stops at a motorway service station, he can’t
resist the lure of junk food.
He eventually returns, and we continue the post-mortem until our glasses
are empty.
“My round, if you fancy another one?” I say, getting to my feet.
“Yeah, go on.”
I head to the bar and return with two fresh pints.
“I’d better make this my last,” I confirm, placing the glasses on the table.
“You on a promise, mate?” Rick jests. “It’s not even ten o’clock yet.”
“Fat bloody chance,” I scoff, with a shade more bitterness than I
intended.
“Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“You haven’t,” I sigh. “It’s just … things are a bit tricky on the marital
front at the moment.”
“Anything you want to talk about? You know what they say about a
problem aired.”
“Nah, you’re okay, but thanks.”
“If you’re worried about me telling tales to your missus, I don’t think our
paths have crossed in all the time she’s worked at Loxford’s. Besides, I’m a
firm believer in the bloke code — what’s said in the pub stays in the pub.”
Whilst I appreciate Rick’s offer of an ear to bend, I can’t bring myself to
reveal the truth behind my marriage problems. He might be right about a
problem being aired and shared, but I haven’t told another living soul about
Chloe’s infidelity. It still turns my stomach to even think about it.
“I’ve been there, you know,” Rick continues. “My marriage went down
the pan two years ago.”
“Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No big deal,” he shrugs. “It’s common knowledge.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My ex had an affair.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah,” he snorts. “Ouch, indeed.”
 “How long were you married?”
“Nearly five years, most of which were great. We had a little boy and a
nice home; everything I thought my ex wanted until she decided she wanted
something, or someone, else.”
“That must have been tough, particularly for your son.”
“I’m not going to lie, Jake, it was fucking awful for the best part of a
year. Saying that, I didn’t help myself.”
“How so?”
“When I discovered my wife’s affair, I tried everything to get our
marriage back on track, but the damage had already been done. Knowing
what I know now, I wish I’d divorced her the moment I found out. It would
have saved a lot of time and heartbreak.”
“I’m sure it didn’t seem so obvious at the time.”
“No, it didn’t, but shit happens in life, and there’s no point moping
around feeling sorry for yourself. I’m happy living the single life these days
— I can come and go as I please, watch as much football as I fancy, and …”
Rick’s sentence ends with a pained smile.
“Anyway,” he says. “I’m now a fully paid-up member of the one-in-three
club.”
“The one-in-three club?”
“One in three marriages end in divorce, so I hear. Mind you, it’ll
probably rise to one-in-two now they’ve changed the divorce laws.
Marriage isn’t as sacred as it once was.”
“Obviously.”
“In fact, it seems easier to ditch a spouse than ditching the manager of a
football club. I wish we could divorce ours, the useless git.”
We stay on the subject of football until I’ve finished my pint. Rick
doesn’t seem in a hurry to leave, but then there’s no one waiting for him at
home.
“Thanks for the beer and the chat,” I say, slipping my coat on.
Rick pulls out his wallet and hands me a business card.
“If you ever need to talk about … you know, feel free to call me. I
struggled to talk about my problems with family or friends because, like
most blokes, I let my pride get in the way.”
“That’s good of you, but — and I mean this in the nicest possible way —
I hope things will get back on track at home soon, and I won’t need
anyone’s advice.”
 “I hope so too, mate.”
I bid Rick goodbye and leave The White Horse.
As I walk back to Norton Rise, I ponder the situation Rick had to contend
with. Knowing your wife had a one-night stand is difficult enough to
accept, but an affair must be devastating. Not only do you have to cope with
knowing your wife has had sex with another man multiple times, but the
emotional deceit must cut as deeply. An affair involves a string of lies over
many months, years even, and it’s impossible to see that as anything other
than cruel.
I’m a long way from forgiving Chloe for her supposed one-time mistake,
so there’s no way I could forgive her for an affair, not in a million years.
For the first time in a while, my self-pity shifts towards another man.
He’s a nice guy, and I enjoy his company, but Christ, I hope I don’t end up
like Rick.
 6
The alarm goes off at 7.20 am. I roll over, snatch my phone up, and
consider tapping the snooze icon. Another six minutes won’t hurt, surely?
I’m still considering it when Chloe opens the bedroom door. Dressed in
her work attire, I presume she’s come to say goodbye.
“Morning.”
“Yeah,” I grunt. “Morning.”
“I’ve made a start on breakfast. It’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
My sleep-addled brain struggles to understand what’s happening. Chloe
usually leaves for work before half-seven.
“You’ve made breakfast?” I confirm. “Why?”
She sits on the edge of the bed. “I thought it’d be nice to have breakfast
together.”
Another olive branch after I refused the first one last night.
“How was the match?” Chloe then asks.
“Don’t ask. We lost.”
“Oh dear.”
“Don’t know why I bother,” I mumble.
“Would you like cheering up?”
She leans forward and rests her hand on the duvet close to my crotch. It’s
said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but my wife
knows other routes are available.
“I need the loo,” I reply, scrambling across the bed and exiting the other
side.
Chloe remains on the edge of the bed. I catch her dejected expression on
my way to the bathroom.
Standing at the loo, I puff a long sigh. A few months ago, I’d have
welcomed an early morning hand job, and I can’t quite believe I’ve turned
one down, but any form of intimacy still feels wrong. I don’t want to end up
like Rick, but I’m still unwilling to forgive and forget, irrespective of the
enticement.
I grab a quick shower, get dressed, and head down to the kitchen. Finn is
already in his school uniform and sitting at the table while Chloe is in the
process of transferring plates to the table.
 “Morning, mate,” I chirp, placing my hand on Finn’s head. “Did you
sleep well?”
He nods but then quickly turns his attention to a plate of pancakes.
“I did your favourite,” Chloe says after returning from the hob with
another plate. “A bacon and mushroom bap.”
“Thanks,” I manage to reply, sitting down opposite Finn.
The three of us then endure an awkward breakfast, not helped by Finn’s
silence and my reticence to engage my wife in conversation. As soon as our
plates are empty, Finn disappears upstairs to brush his teeth. Chloe clears
the table and checks the kitchen clock.
“I’ll be home by half-five tonight,” she declares. “And we’ll try again,
eh?”
“Try what again?”
“Some level of normality.”
I reply with a nod. Chloe then grabs her car keys from a hook near the
fridge and checks her handbag. Satisfied everything is present and correct,
she turns to me.
“I’m not willing to give up without a fight, Jake. I love you and Finn too
much.”
Her words provoke an unexpected emotion: guilt. Whatever her crime,
and however much it killed me, I can’t deny Chloe is trying to make
amends.
I manage the thinnest half-smile. “I know.”
From Chloe’s perspective, my reaction is likely better than expected, and
she departs with an air of optimism. I don’t feel particularly optimistic, but
that might be down to the fact I’ve still got a school run and another day at
TechWorld ahead of me. However, I’m hoping a conversation with the
manager, Barry, might boost my morale.
Half-an-hour later, I arrive at the school gates with Finn. I’m in the
process of trying to extract a goodbye smile when his eyes light up. Alas,
he’s staring straight past me. I turn to see what’s snared his attention just as
the red-haired lad and his mum reach the gates. Without saying goodbye,
Finn darts over to greet his new friend.
“Seems like they’re now best pals,” the lad’s mum says while stepping
towards me. “I’m Rachel, by the way. Alfie’s mum.”
“Seems like it,” I smile back. “And I’m Jake. Finn’s dad.”
“Nice to meet you, Jake.”
 “You too, and I’m pleased to see Finn has found a playmate. He’s not
been himself of late.”
“Really? He seems happy enough.”
She nods towards the boys as they skip across the playground, chatting
away like they’ve known each other forever.
“Unfortunately, he’s suffering from selective mutism, so he doesn’t say a
word at home.”
Rachel adopts a sympathetic frown. “That must be hard.”
“It is.”
“Listen, Alfie has asked if Finn can come over for tea one day. I said I’d
ask his dad, so would that be okay with you?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Great. Let me grab your number, and we’ll sort something out in the
next day or two.”
I duly oblige, and after adding Rachel’s number to my contact list, we go
our separate ways.
On my walk back to the car, I look up to the stone-grey sky and offer a
silent prayer that Finn’s new friendship is a step towards overcoming his
silence at home. He seems at such ease in Alfie’s company, and his mum
appears pretty friendly, too.
After a relatively stress-free journey across town, I arrive at work and
head straight to the staff room. I’m almost disappointed when Troy fails to
appear. Now I know he’s leaving, I can wind him up without fear of
reprisals. At one minute to nine, I drop my mug in the sink and plod down
the stairs to the shop floor. As I reach the last stair, Barry appears from his
office.
“Morning, Jake,” he says.
“Ah, just the man. Is there any chance we could have a quick chat at
some point today?”
“Actually, I wanted to have a word with you, too. I’ve got to get a report
to head office by lunchtime, so can we catch up this afternoon?”
“Sure. What time?”
“Pop to my office at half-two.”
“Nice one. Thanks, Barry.”
The fact Troy is soon to vacate his supervisory role and Barry wants a
chat with me cannot be a coincidence — we’re obviously on the same page.
 I wouldn’t go as far as to say I have a spring in my step as I head towards
the customer service counter, but my problems aren’t weighing me down
quite as much. Life is still shit, but it’s not quite as shit as it was yesterday
— progress of sorts.
“Morning, Ash.”
“Hey, Jake. Good morning to you, too.”
I didn’t say it was a good morning, but I decide to let it slip this once.
“I hear Aldervale lost last night,” he says. “What a bummer.”
Ash has zero interest in football, but he knows I’m a fan.
“Yep. We’re on a roll of poor results.”
“Maybe they’ll do better at the weekend. You’ve got to remain positive,
right?”
“You’ve not seen the league table, have you?”
“Um, I must admit I haven’t.”
“I rest my case.”
Conversation over, we get on with our duties which begin with a series of
calls to customers with online orders to collect. Our website is so confusing
and poorly designed that one in ten calls usually involves an argument. I
ring the first customer on the list.
“Mr Graham, it’s Jake from TechWorld. I’m calling to confirm your
online order of … a set of Canon ink cartridges is now ready for
collection.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your ink cartridges. They’ve arrived in store for you to collect.”
“What are they doing there? I wanted them delivered to my home
address.”
Just my luck. The one in ten happens to be the first customer I speak to.
“I suspect you didn’t untick the box.”
“What box?”
“The box on the right-hand side of the checkout page. You have to untick
it unless you want your items delivered to the nearest store.”
“Are you kidding me? I paid £2.99 to have my order sent to a store on the
opposite side of town?”
“I guess you did.”
“Why the hell would I do that?”
“I’ve no idea, Mr Graham, but your cartridges are ready for collection.”
 “If I wanted to collect them, I would have driven to the bloody store in
the first place.”
“Well, they’re here now.”
“I want them sent to my home address.”
“I’ll have to send them back to our warehouse. You can then claim a
refund and re-order them.”
“And how long does that take?”
“Ten working days, plus however long it takes to process the new order.”
“This is unacceptable. I want to complain.”
“If you visit our website, there’s a link at the bottom of the page which
will put you in contact with our complaints department.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Ironically, about ten working days.”
Despite Mr Graham’s heavy breathing, the line is silent. My cue to end
the call.
“Thanks for shopping with TechWorld. Goodbye.”
“Don’t—”
I terminate the call.
“Idiot,” I mumble as I place the phone back on its base.
“Who’s an idiot?” Ash asks.
“That customer. Another one who shouldn’t be allowed to use the
internet.”
“He was expecting a home delivery?”
“Yes.”
“Where does he live?”
“Somewhere on the other side of town, apparently.”
“Let me see.”
Ash steps over and checks Mr Graham’s address.
“He only lives a few streets away from me. I’ll drop his order off on my
way home.”
With that, he starts dialling the number.
“You’re such a mug, Ash. Do that for one, and they’ll all expect it.”
“I’m only trying to be helpful, Jake. It’s no big deal.”
“Your funeral,” I shrug.
I get on with the rest of my calls and, thankfully, don’t encounter any
more customers with delivery issues. The rest of the morning proceeds in
the usual banal way, and I grab a quick sandwich at lunchtime. While sitting
in the staffroom, I decide to text Chloe and let her know about Finn’s invite.
Before her indiscretion, we’d always swap text messages at lunchtime, but I
haven’t sent a single text since that weekend. It’s my way of showing
willing after Chloe’s efforts this morning.
Due to my three o’clock finish time, afternoons are mercifully short at
TechWorld. This afternoon will be even shorter as I’m set to meet Barry at
half-two. The time passes quickly, and, despite a few narky customers
testing my patience, I knock on the office door in a moderately positive
frame of mind.
“Come in,” Barry answers.
I enter the cramped office, and Barry invites me to take one of the chairs
in front of his desk. He finishes whatever he’s doing with a few heavy taps
on the keyboard. Then, he runs a hand through his silver hair and sits back
in the chair.
“Okay, Jake. What did you want to see me about?”
“I understand Troy is leaving soon.”
“Today is his last day. He’s having leaving drinks at The Red Lion this
evening, if you’re interested?”
“Err, I’m busy tonight, but seeing as this is Troy’s last day, I’d like to
apply for his position.”
“Oh,” Barry responds, looking genuinely surprised. “I wasn’t expecting
that.”
“You weren’t?”
“I’m not a gambling man, but when you said you wanted a chat, I’d have
staked a tenner on you handing in your notice.”
“Right … well, I’m not.”
Barry scratches his chin for a few seconds and then sits forward.
“I’ve already reached a decision on the supervisor’s position, I’m afraid.
Sorry.”
“But, I didn’t see anything on the staff noticeboard about it. It seems a bit
unfair you’ve appointed someone without letting the other staff members
apply.”
“There weren’t any other applicants interested.”
“I was.”
“I didn’t think it was really up your street.”
“You didn’t ask.”
 “In truth, Jake, I didn’t have to. You’ve made it clear since day one that
you think a job in retail is beneath you.”
“No offence, but the role of a customer service assistant is beneath me.
That’s why I was interested in the supervisor’s position.”
“And that’s not beneath you?”
“Err, it’s better than being an assistant, that’s for sure.”
Barry gives his chin another scratch.
“Let’s put the supervisor’s position to one side for a moment. I wanted to
chat with you, Jake, to confirm that I’m extending your probation period for
another three months.”
“What?” I spit, indignantly. “Why?”
“Primarily, your attitude. If you don’t want to be here, quit, but as long as
you are here, I expect some level of professionalism.”
“I am professional.”
“You say that, but I took a call from a Mr Graham at lunchtime. He
certainly didn’t think much of your professionalism. He did, however, sing
Ash’s praises. That lad is a model employee, which is why I’m promoting
him to supervisor.”
I choose not to dwell on Mr Graham’s complaint.
“Ash doesn’t have any supervisory experience.”
“No, but he has the right attitude.”
“But, what about—”
“It’s not up for debate, Jake,” Barry interjects. “I’ve made my decision.”
“Great,” I huff. “Thanks a lot.”
“And there we have it. That’s why I’m extending your probation — you
need to drop the attitude.”
“I don’t have an attitude,” I mumble.
“Tell your face that. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile, Jake, not
once. You stomp around the store with that brooding expression, like you’re
carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”
“I don’t … it’s just, I’ve had a few problems at home.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Personal stuff. That’s all.”
“Do you need time off?”
“No.”
“Okay, so get your problems sorted, and maybe we can discuss your
career options at TechWorld after you’ve completed your probation period.”
 I’ve been in Barry’s shoes before, and, in fairness, I don’t think I’d have
handled the situation any differently. I’m bang to rights.
“Was there anything else?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“In which case, get back to the shop floor.”
With a heavy sigh, I stand up and turn towards the door.
“Oh, and Jake,” Barry says. “For fuck’s sake, try and smile, will you?”
With yet another humiliation to bear, I don’t think I’ll ever smile again.
 7
Chloe steps through the front door at half-five on the dot. She comes
straight through to the kitchen where I’m nursing a can of lager.
It’s been seven weeks since we shared a welcome home kiss, and one
look at my face tells Chloe that tonight is not the night to revive that
routine.
“Tough day?” she asks, placing a carrier bag on the side.
“The usual shit,” I grumble.
“Would you like to talk about it?”
Having decided against telling my wife I was going for Troy’s job, I’m
not about to admit that not only did I spectacularly fail in that quest, but
Barry also extended my probation period.
“Nah, not really.”
I’m about to get up and grab another beer when my phone rings. Pulling
it from my pocket, I groan when I see the name on the screen.
“Who is it?” Chloe asks in response to my frown.
“Dad.”
“You could ignore the call.”
She knows I won’t. As fractured as my paternal relationship is, Dad is the
only family I have besides Chloe and Finn. I take the call.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Alright, Boy,” he says in his usual brash manner. “How’s it hanging?”
“Fine. You?”
“Yeah, not bad, but I’m in a bit of a pickle. Can you help your old dad
out?”
“What’s up?” I ask.
He says something, but it’s hard to hear him over the sound of music and
background chatter.
“I can barely hear you, Dad.”
“I’m in a bar, and it’s a bit noisy.”
“You’ll have to speak up.”
“Can you hear me now?” he booms.
“Yeah. Go on.”
 “We’re out in Marbella at the moment, and I might have spent a bit more
than I should. Any chance you could pick us up from Gatwick — I ain’t got
forty quid for a cab.”
“Can’t you get the train?”
“Not at half-one in the morning.”
A shrill female voice cackles in the background. The voice likely belongs
to Dad’s wife, Melanie.
“Half-one?” I repeat.
“Yeah. I know it’s a bit late, but at least the roads will be clear. I wouldn’t
ask if I wasn’t potless.”
If ever there was a conversation that sums up my so-called father, this is
it. Only he would plead poverty while drinking in a bar on holiday and then
expect me to cover for his reckless spending.
Alas, he knows I won’t say no. I never do.
“When does your flight land?”
“Tonight. We’re heading to the airport in an hour or so.”
“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll be there.”
“Good lad. I appreciate it.”
I doubt he does because there’s not much Ron Mason appreciates in life
besides booze, birds, and bloody good times, as he likes to boast when he’s
had a few.
“I’ll see you later, Dad.”
Tossing the phone on the table, Chloe knows better than to ask how the
call went. The first time she met my dad was at our wedding, where he
drank the free bar dry, made a pass at Chloe’s mum, and then relieved
himself in a Yucca plant, all before seven in the evening.
“He wants a lift from the airport,” I state, flatly. “Tonight.”
“Where is he?”
“Marbella.”
“Alright for some. Why can’t they get a cab, need I ask?”
There hasn’t been a lot of common ground between Chloe and me of late,
but she understands my relationship with Dad better than anyone and how
much disappointment that man has subjected me to over the years. She also
knows I haven’t completely given up on the hope he’ll change one day.
“He’s skint,” I confirm.
Chloe rolls her eyes but then places her hand on my shoulder. It’s the first
time she’s tried to be tactile since that weekend, overlooking the hand job
offer this morning. I don’t recoil on this occasion.
After an awkward moment of silence, she removes her hand and sits
beside me.
“If you want, I’ll pay for a cab.”
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.”
“I don’t mind. You’ll be lucky to get back home by three if the flight
doesn’t land until half-one.”
“I’m sure I’ll cope. I’ve had to learn how to function on minimal sleep.”
My remark, although not directly aimed at Chloe, still seems to cut.
“I’ll put the oven on,” she says, getting to her feet again.
An hour later, having endured another stilted family meal, we convene in
the lounge to watch The SpongeBob Movie for the ninety-second time.
Fortunately, we only have to suffer an hour before Finn’s bedtime arrives.
Just as I’m about to remind him of that fact, a message alert pings on my
phone. Hoping it’s Dad telling me they’ve missed their flight, I snatch it up.
It’s not, and I show the message to Chloe.
“I’m happy if you are,” she says.
I turn to Finn. “Alfie’s mum sent me a message, and she wants to know if
you’d like to have tea at their house tomorrow. Would you like that?”
He bites his bottom lip to prevent a smile from breaking but nods his
head enthusiastically.
“Okay, cool. I’ll sort out the details, but I imagine you’ll go there straight
after school.”
Another nod.
“Now, I think it’s time for bed, don’t you?”
“I’ll take him up,” Chloe says.
I kiss Finn goodnight and then reply to Rachel’s text, confirming the
arrangements for tomorrow. That done, I switch off the DVD player.
I’m ten minutes into a quiz show when Chloe returns. She sits on the
sofa, close enough so we can talk but not so close that anyone passing by
the lounge window might glance in and think we’re a happily married
couple.
“Looks like it’s dinner for two tomorrow,” she says.
“Apparently. I’ve just confirmed with Rachel, Alfie’s mum.”
“What time does she want us to pick him up?”
“She’ll drop him back here at half-seven.”
 “That’s nice of her. We’ll have to return the favour … maybe invite Alfie
over for the day during half-term?”
“Sure.”
It occurs to me that we’ve just held a civilised conversation, albeit a brief
one.
“I was thinking,” Chloe then says, casually. “If I leave work early
tomorrow, maybe we can go out for early dinner as we’re child-free. Seems
a shame to waste the opportunity, don’t you think?”
Rather than answer, I focus on the question just posed by the TV
quizmaster.
“It’s only dinner, Jake,” Chloe continues. “I’m not expecting miracles.”
“Paul Young,” I reply after a moment’s hesitation.
“Eh?”
“Who sang the first line of Band-Aid’s Do They Know It's Christmas? It
was Paul Young.”
Chloe flops back on the sofa and draws a deep breath. I concede that
maybe, just maybe, I’m acting like a dick.
“Okay, but I get to choose where we eat.”
“That’s fine.”
“And I’m not driving.”
“Also fine.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
I return my attention to the quiz show, and Chloe doesn’t say another
word on the subject, perhaps not wanting to risk her luck by saying
something that might trigger another row. We sit and watch a lame drama,
and at nine o’clock, I head up to the spare bedroom to grab a few hours’
sleep before my airport run.
All too soon, my alarm is ruining the best spell of sleep I’ve enjoyed in
weeks. At half past midnight, armed with a flask of strong coffee, I set off
on the forty-minute drive to Gatwick Airport.
Ten minutes after joining the motorway, I can see why there are warnings
about driving whilst tired. The traffic is light, but that only adds to the
monotony of following white lines as they stream relentlessly towards an
ink-black horizon. The caffeine helps, but thinking about my earlier
conversation with Barry also stokes enough resentment to keep my senses
piqued. If I’ve learned anything over the last seven weeks, it’s that it’s
difficult to be angry and sleepy at the same time.
Deep down, I concede that my anger is misplaced. I’ve been on Barry’s
side of the desk, and I can’t say I blame him for promoting Ash over me.
I’ve got no one to blame but myself.
Could I also be to blame for my wife’s infidelity?
I try putting myself in Chloe’s shoes, or bed, specifically. What would
provoke me into cheating on my wife? I suppose the reasons for cheating
are many and varied, but if there’s a common denominator, surely it’s a
deficit in your existing relationship — something your partner lacks.
As the miles pass, I run through a mental checklist of all my faults and
failings, searching for the smoking gun. I soon realise it’s an impossible
task, like asking an interview candidate to list their weaknesses. In all the
interviews I’ve conducted, I’ve never heard an honest response to that
question.
The truth is most people’s biggest flaw is not being able to recognise
their flaws. I’m no different.
By the time I pull into the short-stay car park at Gatwick, I’ve given up
trying to work out what drove my wife into the arms of another man. I
could ask her, I suppose, but I doubt I’ll get an answer.
I make my way to the arrivals hall and wait near the gate. According to
the digital sign on the wall, Dad’s flight has landed, so I shouldn’t have to
wait long, assuming the stupid sod hasn’t tried smuggling two thousand
cigarettes in his suitcase. Again.
As I predicted, the first few passengers appear at the gate and make their
way towards waiting friends and family. As the trickle turns to a steady
stream, I spot Dad and Melanie near the back, each towing a suitcase on
wheels and dressed like they’re on the way home from a nightclub.
Dad spots me and beckons his wife in my direction.
“Alright, Boy,” he says, cheerfully. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
I wish the same could be said of my father.
“Hey, Dad. Melanie.”
I nod at my stepmother, and she flashes a set of veneered teeth. Despite
being in her late forties, Melanie refuses to grow old gracefully. Besides a
raft of cosmetic enhancements, she dresses like she’s still a teenager, albeit
a teenager from 1992.
“I’m in the short-stay car park,” I remark. “This way.”
 The couple follow behind as I head towards the exit.
“How’s Finn?” Dad asks.
“He’s good.”
“And Chloe?”
“Yeah, she’s good, too.”
“I keep meaning to pop over, but you know how it is … never enough
hours in the day.”
Considering he hasn’t held down a full-time job in years, I wonder how
he spends all the hours he can’t find to visit his son and grandson.
Dad then turns to his wife and starts rabbiting on about another couple
they met on holiday. I tune out until we reach the car and then open the boot
so they can stow their suitcases.
“Do us a favour,” Dad says. “Can you put my case in? My back’s giving
me gyp.”
I grab Dad’s case and then watch on as Melanie clambers into the back
seat, leaving her case on the tarmac.
“I’ll put Melanie’s in as well, shall I?” I mumble.
“Please, Lad,” Dad replies, already on his way to the passenger’s door.
I place both suitcases in the boot and slam the lid shut. Once I’m behind
the wheel, I check the time: 1.55 am. Wearily, I put on my seatbelt and turn
the ignition key.
Five silent minutes into the journey, I try to spark a conversation.
“How was the holiday?”
“I don’t wanna be rude, Lad, but do you mind if I get some shut eye?
We’ve been up for twenty-four hours, ain’t we, love?”
“Yeah, I’m knackered,” Melanie yawns from the back seat.
They both doze for the entire journey and only stir when I pull up outside
their house and yank on the handbrake.
“At last,” Dad remarks. “I could murder a cuppa.”
They both get out of the car and wander straight down the path to the
front door, leaving me to transfer their cases from the boot. There’s no sense
arguing, so I don’t.
By the time I’ve struggled to the front door, they’ve both kicked their
shoes off in the hallway, and Dad is halfway up the stairs.
“Bring ’em straight up?” he says. “I’m busting for a piss.”
“Where’s Melanie?”
 “Putting the kettle on,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing
from view.
It’s bad enough I’m an unpaid taxi driver, but now it seems that role
includes portering duties. With no one to complain to, I get on with it — the
sooner I get it done, the sooner I can get back to bed.
Once both cases are on the landing, I thump back down the stairs. The
sound of the toilet flushing follows me and a few seconds later, so too does
my dad.
“Nice one, Lad,” he says.
“You staying for a cuppa?” Melanie then asks, standing at the end of the
hallway with a mug in each hand.
“No, thanks. It’s late, and I’ve got to be up for work in a little over four
hours.”
“Suit yourself,” she snorts. “Can’t even spare five minutes to have a cup
of tea with your dad, eh?”
“Pardon?”
Melanie steps into the hallway.
“I’m just sayin’, Jake, it wouldn’t kill you to stay and have a cup of tea.
Your dad ain’t seen you in ages.”
I turn to Dad, expecting him to explain why he hasn’t bothered
contacting me in an age, but he remains mute. I turn back to Melanie.
“What time do you have to get up?” I ask.
“Whenever I want.”
“Lucky you. I don’t, and if Dad wanted to chat, maybe he could have
stayed awake on the journey home.”
“No need for the attitude,” Dad chides. “Mel’s only making a point.”
“What point?”
“That you should make more effort,” Melanie replies on behalf of her
husband. “We could have asked a mate to pick us up from the airport, but
your dad thought it’d be nice if we asked you.”
Tired and emotionally drained, I reach the end of my tether.
“Gosh, I’m touched. Thank you so much for allowing me to drive to the
airport in the middle of the fucking night without a word of thanks. Really, I
couldn’t be more grateful.”
Melanie shakes her head and mumbles something under her breath.
“I think you’d better get yourself home,” Dad suggests. “You’re
obviously a bit tired and cranky.”
 I turn to face him, and just as I’m about to release another volley, the
futility hits me. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to argue against Dad’s
thoughtlessness — he’s never listened, so why would he listen now?
I storm out of the house without another word.
 8
I hand a small rucksack to Rachel as we bid our respective offspring
goodbye at the school gates.
“Spare clothes,” I confirm. “Finn is incapable of keeping his uniform
clean for seven whole hours.”
“Alfie’s no better,” Rachel chuckles. “But boys will be boys, eh?”
“True. You should see my trousers after I’ve been out for a few beers.”
She sniggers at my lame quip and then confirms the arrangements for
later. Plans set, we go our separate ways.
On the drive to work, I toy with the idea of apologising to Barry for my
attitude. It would be easy to blame it on events at home, but I wasn’t exactly
employee of the month material before Chloe played away. I then remind
myself that TechWorld pays us minimum wage, and, as the saying goes, if
you pay peanuts, you get employees who struggle to give a shit. The
exception to that rule greets me in the staffroom.
“Good morning, Jake,” Ash beams.
“It’s a morning, for sure.”
“I’m just making a cup of tea. Would you like one?”
“I’ll have a coffee, ta.”
I sit down at the table and fight back a yawn.
“Late night?” Ash asks.
“Very late. Shouldn’t you be on the shop floor?”
“Suzy is covering for me. I’ve just had a meeting with Barry.”
“Oh.”
“And I’ve got great news.”
Ash turns to face me, a mile-wide grin plastered across his face.
“He’s offered you Troy’s job.”
His grin dissolves momentarily. “Oh. You knew?”
“I had a chat with Barry yesterday afternoon, and he let it slip.
Congratulations, Ash.”
“Thank you, Jake. I can’t believe I’ve been promoted … I’ve never been
promoted before, ever.”
“You deserve it, but can I give you one word of advice?”
“Of course.”
 “Whatever you do, don’t be Troy.”
“I won’t,” he replies, placing a mug of coffee on the table. “I will be the
best version of Ash I can be.”
“Good for you, mate. Good for you.”
He bounds off to share his news with the rest of the team, leaving me to
sip my coffee in peace. On reflection, I wonder if Ash’s relentless
enthusiasm might, in time, become more irritating than Troy’s delusions of
grandeur. Perhaps a more pressing question should be: how much longer
can I tolerate any of this?
An uneventful workday passes by in a sleep-deprived blur. By three
o’clock, I can barely keep my eyes open, so it’s a relief I don’t have to
contend with the school run. I return home forty minutes earlier than usual
and flop down on the sofa, exhausted. As my eyelids droop, I’m suddenly
dragged back to reality when my phone rings. It’s Chloe.
“Hey, I’m just calling to let you know I’m leaving work in about twenty
minutes.”
For a moment, I’m unsure why my wife feels it necessary to inform me
of her departure time. Then, I remember.
“Oh, yeah. Dinner.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic about it.”
“No, um … I was nodding off when you rang.”
“Oh, sorry. I bet you’re exhausted, aren’t you?”
“I’m drained, to be honest.”
“Do you want to take a rain check on dinner?”
Now she’s asked the question, I don’t feel much like getting dressed up
and going out, but I don’t have the energy for another argument.
Irrespective of my motives, Chloe will assume I’m cancelling to spite her.
“I’ll be fine.”
My wife pauses for a moment. “Can I make a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
“Why don’t you go and have a nap for an hour, and I’ll pop to Waitrose
on the way home and buy us something special for dinner? We don’t have
to go out to have a nice time, do we?”
“Err, I guess not.”
“Great. Go and have that nap, and I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
I end the call and breathe a sigh of relief. Argument averted, and I don’t
have to leave the house again today. It’s a measure of how shitty my life is
that I now consider cancelled dinner plans a reason for cheer.
Wearily, I get up from the sofa and trudge to the bedroom. Within
moments of my head hitting the pillow, I drift off.
It seems like I’ve been asleep for about five minutes when a hand gently
shakes my shoulder.
“Wakey, wakey, sleepy head.”
I force my eyes open and blink up at Chloe.
“What time is it?” I rasp.
“A few minutes after five.”
I sit up and stretch my arms.
“Do you feel better for a nap?” Chloe asks.
“Yeah, a bit.”
“Good. I’ve just put the oven on, and dinner will be ready in an hour. In
the meantime, come with me.”
She stands up and ushers me towards the bedroom door.
“Come where, exactly?”
“You’ll see.”
I follow my wife to the landing. She then opens the bathroom door and
invites me to enter. Suspicious, I step forward and cross the threshold to an
unexpected scene. The bath is full, with a thick layer of bubbles covering
the water’s surface, and there are half-a-dozen scented candles lined up
along the edge. Chloe has also placed her Bluetooth speaker on a shelf, and
it’s currently playing soft piano music.
“I thought you might like to unwind properly,” my wife then says,
handing me a bottle of cold beer. My mouth like sandpaper, I take a long
and welcome glug.
“You’ve been so stressed of late.”
“Is it any wonder …”
“I know,” she interjects, holding her hands up, palms out. “And this is my
way of trying to make amends. I know it’ll take more than a bubble bath,
some calming music, and Beef Wellington, but—”
“We’ve got Beef Wellington for dinner?”
“Yes, because it happens to be my husband’s favourite meal.”
I glance across at the bath and then pull a deep breath. Chloe is right — I
have been like a tightly wound spring of late, and the opportunity to relax
and think of nothing does appeal.
“Thank you.”
 “You’re welcome,” she says with a smile. “Would you like me to bring
you another beer in fifteen minutes? That one seems to be going down
well.”
“Why not,” I reply with a semi-smile.
She steps back onto the landing and closes the bathroom door.
I strip off and slip into the bathtub. It is, I have to admit, bliss. I’m not
sure I’d have chosen the piano music, but I can’t deny it has a soothing
quality. I breathe slowly through my nose, inhaling the scent of sandalwood
and jasmine, the candles along the bath’s edge gently flickering as if
swaying in time to the piano’s notes. To attain peak relaxation, I reach for
the beer bottle and empty it. It’s not my usual brand, but a craft lager that’s
probably as expensive as it is potent. The alcohol soon adds another layer to
my calm.
All I have to do to retain that calm is not think of the people who’ve
recently brought stress to my door. I can’t think about Dad, or Melanie, or
Troy, or Barry, or Chloe. Definitely not Chloe. I need to think of nothing.
I close my eyes and focus on the music. Minutes pass, but it isn’t that
easy to think of nothing. I did download a meditation app a while back, but
when the honey-toned instructor suggested I clear my mind of all
distractions, I couldn’t do it. Mind you, Aldervale United were in the midst
of a tense relegation battle at the time, so that probably didn’t help.
If my memory serves, the meditation instructor suggested picturing a
tranquil scene, so I try to imagine I’m standing on a beach on a desert
island. Barefoot, I can feel the warm sand between my toes, and the view
ahead is of a dazzling turquoise sea. There’s the slightest breeze rustling the
leaves of the palm trees and the only other sound is that of the waves gently
lapping the shoreline. My breathing begins to slow, and all is well with the
world until I sense someone approaching from behind. I turn around to find
Troy tapping his watch.
“Tut, tut, Jake,” he chides. “Time to get back to work.”
I envisage punching the apparition in the face, but the ensuing shot of
adrenaline shatters the illusion.
“Bollocks,” I mumble, opening my eyes.
I reach for the bottle of lager but then remember it’s empty. Almost on
cue, the bathroom door eases open.
“How are you feeling?” Chloe asks.
“Better, thank you.”
 She hands me another bottle of craft lager. I notice she’s now wearing a
dressing gown.
“Do you mind if I grab a two-minute shower?” she asks. “I used most of
the hot water for your bath, so I didn’t have a chance before you woke up.”
“Err, sure.”
Chloe closes the bathroom door and steps across to the cubicle. Then, she
reaches in and turns the shower on. It takes about fifteen seconds for the
water to reach the right temperature, and Chloe fills those seconds by
undoing the cord around her dressing gown and letting it fall to the floor.
She then steps into the cubicle and slides the glass door shut.
With her back to me, I watch my wife pour shower gel on a sponge and
then run it slowly up and down each arm, then across her shoulders and
over her breasts, although I can’t see more than a glimpse of side-boob from
my vantage point in the bath.
Chloe then rinses off the suds, cuts the water, and turns around. She
slides the door open and steps onto the shower mat, her wet skin reflecting
the glow of the candles. She then plucks a bottle of coconut moisturiser
from the side and squeezes a small amount into the palm of her left hand.
With the piano still plinking away in the background, I watch on as my wife
slowly runs her hand from her right shoulder across her breasts and then
towards her nether regions.
Suddenly, Chloe looks up, straight into the eyes of her lecherous
husband. However, her eyes don’t linger on mine for long as another part of
my anatomy snares her attention. Poking its head above the foam, like a
mythical sea creature, is my erect penis.
My wife adopts her sultriest of smiles and steps over to the bathtub.
“Seems someone is pleased to see me,” she purrs, sitting on the edge of
the bath. “And we’ve still got thirty minutes till dinner is ready if you’d like
me to say a proper hello to him?”
There is only one head dictating play now, and it’s not the one on my
shoulders. I look my wife in the eye and slowly nod.
 9
Mentally, I’m still on that tropical beach, but now I’m in the midst of a
tropical cyclone.
We fall onto the bed and roll around as if tumbling down a hill; a frenzy
of gasps and groans, of entwined limbs, and hands grabbing and grasping at
whatever there is to be grabbed or grasped at. It’s as close to wild as two
consenting homo sapiens can get.
Chloe shifts her weight to the left as I roll onto my back. She then
straddles me, keeping one hand on my face while using the other to guide
me into her. The moment of connection is almost overwhelming, and I have
to grab Chloe’s waist to slow down the rhythmic thrusting of her hips. She
then grabs my hands and places them on her breasts, rolling her head back
and groaning as she grinds hard.
The visual stimulus is as intoxicating as the physical and, being that
we’ve not touched one another in months, the sex is as intense and
passionate as those early months of our relationship. Back then, this was
our days and nights, but then you get married, and that first child comes
along. Before you know it, moments like this are your yesterday.
I miss this feeling, and I miss the girl I fell in love with. I just want
everything back the way it was.
Chloe leans forward, placing her hands on my shoulders while slowly
running her tongue up my neck.
“I love you,” she then whispers in my ear.
Her lips are on mine before I can reply, her tongue probing every corner
of my mouth while she continues to grind her hips back and forth, up and
down. We might well have thirty minutes before dinner is ready, but my
timer is now counting down in seconds.
It’s all I can do to gulp as my wife tenses her pelvic muscles and pushes
down hard. She bucks her backside up and then pushes back again; a
technique I’ve cited as my nemesis when it comes to holding back.
Whatever distraction strategy I’ve tried in the past, it’s consistently failed:
counting to a hundred in French, recounting the lyrics of Mambo No.5, and
even picturing Boris Johnson in nothing but a leather codpiece. This is
Chloe’s sexual superpower, and she knows I’m defenceless against it.
 “That feels so good,” she groans in my ear.
Another three slow thrusts and I sense the pot is about to boil over.
“Come hard for me, Dave,” she gasps. “I want you to …”
Scarcely able to believe what I heard, I put my hands on Chloe’s
shoulders and push her back.
“What the fuck did you just say?” I snap.
My wife stops grinding and stares down at me, confused.
“Eh? I said come hard for me.”
“What else?” I growl, my erection already withering towards limp. “You
said his name — Dave!”
“I … no, I never. I said babe. Come hard for me BABE!”
“Get off me.”
I wriggle out from underneath Chloe and leap off the bed. In my mind’s
eye, all I can picture is her astride another man, fucking him like she just
fucked me, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
“Jake, please,” Chloe begs. “I said babe.”
Whether she said babe or Dave is immaterial now. I might have misheard
my wife sixty seconds ago, but I sure as hell didn’t mishear her confession
in the park seven weeks ago, and that’s all I can think about. That, and the
rawness of the moment.
“Did you ride him, like that?” I spit.
“Don’t do this.”
“Answer me.”
“What good will it do?”
“I want to know. Did he come inside you?”
“What?”
“You obviously didn’t use a condom otherwise you wouldn’t have
needed the morning-after pill. So, he did come inside you, didn’t he?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You damn well know what I want you to say — his name!”
“Why? Do you seriously think you’ll fix this by punching a man you
don’t know?”
“It’d make me feel better.”
“No, it won’t, and that’s why I can’t … no, I won’t tell you. It’s for your
own good, Jake … for our own good. We have to get past this.”
I tug open the wardrobe door and grab a pair of jeans.
“Get past this?” I snort. “That’s a joke!”
 “I’m trying to make things right, and I wanted tonight to be the first
step.”
“By doing to me what you did to him? God, I can’t believe I went along
with it.”
“I only wanted to show you how much I love you.”
“Did you love him?”
My question appears to strike a nerve if Chloe’s dark scowl is any
barometer.
“Shut up,” she snaps. “Shut up!”
“Fine,” I reply, flatly. “I’ll shut up.”
I grab a hoodie off the rail and march back to the bathroom. In our
urgency to get to the bedroom, we didn’t blow out the candles, empty the
bathtub, or switch off the Bluetooth speaker. As I angrily tug my clothes on,
the piano music continues to play. I could listen to it for a week, and it
wouldn’t make a dent in my emotional state. I’m anything but calm.
I open the bathroom door and step onto the landing just as Chloe exits the
bedroom. She’s still naked, her cheeks tear-stained.
“Please, Jake,” she pleads. “I’m sorry … I’m sorry … I’M SORRY!”
“What are you sorry for? Leaving that receipt in your purse or fucking
another man?”
“You have to understand; I’d rather die than do anything to hurt you.”
“But you have, Chloe, and I honestly don’t think you’ll ever be able to
undo that hurt.”
I turn and thump down the stairs towards the front door, grabbing my
trainers from the cupboard in the hallway. I’m still lacing them up when
Chloe follows, now in her dressing gown.
“Where are you going?” she asks, her voice small.
“Out.”
“What about dinner?”
“Strangely, I’ve lost my appetite.”
“How long will you be?”
I check I’ve got my wallet and phone and then fix my wife with a hard
stare.
“You won’t answer my questions. Don’t expect me to answer yours.”
Without waiting for a response, I open the front door and leave,
slamming it behind me. I then unlock my car, but as I’m about to open the
driver’s door, a shard of common sense breaks through the murk in my
head. I’ve already drunk two bottles of strong lager and, realistically, I
intend to drink many more.
I lock the car and stride away from the house.
Reaching the end of Norton Rise, I turn left, and my phone buzzes in my
pocket. I don’t bother checking who the message is from because I already
know. I’ve no interest in anything Chloe has to say because I’ve heard it all
before. I’ve not only heard it all before, but I’ve felt it all before, too.
The anger still simmering, I cross the road and head towards The White
Horse.
A few hundred yards later, I concede I wandered willingly into this latest
shitstorm. Stupidly, naively, I let my guard down, thinking that a quick shag
might somehow paper over the gaping cracks in our marriage.
What a mug I am.
I reach The White Horse just as it begins to rain. Hurrying inside, I head
straight for the bar and order a bottle of lager. Jade, a relatively new
member of staff, duly obliges. I put the bottle to my lips and tip it back, not
stopping until it’s empty.
“You look like you needed that,” Jade comments. “Another?”
“I’ll have a pint … and a whisky chaser, please.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Yep.”
As Jade sorts my order, I glance up at the clock above the optics. My
dinner will be ready in a few minutes but I won’t be there to enjoy it.
Overlooking a lack of appetite, no way could I sit at a table and pretend
everything is okay. Whoever spent the night with my wife has no idea what
they’ve done. Strangely, it feels more like a theft than a betrayal because he
has taken something from me, and I don’t think I’ll ever get it back.
A few years back, a mate of mine had his beloved BMW M3 stolen, and
although the police recovered it, my mate said it never felt the same when
he got behind the wheel. He’d dreamt of owning that car for years, but that
dream was tarnished when some joy-riding tosser stole it from his
driveway. He sold it three months later at a loss.
Irrespective of my current feelings for Chloe, I realise how crass it is, to
compare her with a car. I suppose my contempt, like my mate’s, is for the
scumbag who took something that wasn’t his to take. All he thought about
was getting his rocks off, not stopping to think about the long-term damage
his actions might inflict upon innocent parties.
 I pay Jade for my drinks and take them to a table at the far side of the bar.
There’s a better view of the widescreen TV on the wall, tuned to a sports
channel and showing a football match. Yes, I am that sad bastard who sits
and drinks alone, but watching a football match at least implies another
reason for my being here. Maybe I’m a fan of Braga or Malmö — the two
teams currently playing out a tie in some obscure European cup competition
— rather than a man whose entire life has crumbled to dust before his eyes.
Sitting back in my seat, I look up at the TV screen and feign interest
while emptying the whisky tumbler. Then, I set about demolishing the lager.
The alcohol does a reasonable job of blunting the sharp edges of my anger,
but it brings another emotion into play.
I unlock my phone and google the definition — despair: the complete
loss or absence of hope. If there’s a better word to describe my current
emotional state, I can’t think of one.
Braga take the lead, and I mark the occasion with another pint, forgoing
the chaser because I’ll be on the floor within an hour if I keep knocking
back whiskies. I need to stretch my pub visit till ten o’clock when Chloe
goes to bed. I can’t face her again this evening, particularly with Finn in the
house. As for tomorrow, fuck knows what I’ll do.
For now, though, I’ll sit here and test the limits of alcohol anaesthesia.
An hour and two pints later, I’m about to get up and visit the loo when a
familiar face enters the bar. I’m not in the mood for a chat but Rick spots
me and wanders over.
“Alright, mate,” he says. “Unusual to see you in here on a Thursday
evening.”
“I’m supporting Malmö,” I reply, nodding up at the TV screen.
“How are they doing?”
“Losing 1–0.”
“You don’t half pick your football teams,” he chuckles. “Haven’t you
suffered enough with Aldervale?”
I don’t say it, but my suffering extends way beyond ninety minutes of
awful football once or twice a week.
“What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.”
“Obviously. Can I get you a beer?”
“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think I’d be good company.”
“Problems at home, still?”
 I slowly nod. Rick checks his watch. “I’m meeting a mate for a few
frames of pool. You’re welcome to join us.”
“Honestly, I’m alright here, drowning my sorrows.”
“If you change your mind, my offer stands. I’ll be in the other bar,
okay?”
“Okay.”
“And, Jake, if you ever want to talk or blow off some steam, just message
me. It’s not healthy to keep your crap bottled up.”
“I know, and I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”
Rick heads off to the bar, and I hurry to the loo. By the time I return, he’s
gone, but fortunately, no one has stolen my table. With only five other
customers, it was never a likelihood. I order another pint and settle down to
watch a football match I couldn’t be any less interested in.
At half-time, there’s an ad break. The first advert is for a new brand of
olive oil spread, and includes a smiley family enjoying a picnic in the park:
a mother, a father, and two young children. It couldn’t be further removed
from my own childhood, but I hoped I might one day build a family of my
own. I came close — the wife, the son, and me, the husband. We had the
house, and I had the successful career. All we needed to complete our
perfect family was a second child, and up until I lost my job, I thought their
arrival was only a matter of time.
“Time,” I snort under my breath.
Our time is up, I concede. The hope is all but gone.
 10
My granddad, Thomas Albert Spalding, was a wise man.
As I finish my fifth pint, I remember something he once said: I used to
think drinking was bad for me, so I gave up thinking.
I decide to take Granddad’s advice because I’ve had enough of thinking
for one evening, and it’s best I leave while I’m still capable of walking in a
straight line. My decision to leave also relates to my granddad and a place I
haven’t visited in a long while. Too long, I suspect.
With a parting nod to Jade behind the bar, I leave The White Horse.
Standing on the pavement outside, I attempt to calculate the route. I’ve
never walked to my destination from this part of town before, but it can’t be
more than a mile away, and I’m in no hurry. Chloe won’t be in bed for
another hour.
Although the rain has stopped, there’s a damp, autumnal mist in the air,
most noticeable when I pass a streetlight. The eerie quality lends itself to
the time of the year, with Halloween not too far away. Finn is now at the
age where he’ll want to go Trick or Treating, and because Chloe is into all
the dressing up and pumpkin carving, she’ll be guiding our son around the
neighbourhood rather than me.
I reach the garden centre and take a left turn into Farm Lane. The lane
itself isn’t much more than a single-lane track cutting across the north-
easterly corner of the town. It once served as an access road to Tipton Farm,
hence the lane’s name, but many years have passed since Farmer Tipton
sold the land and all the outbuildings. It remains one of the few remaining
rural parts of the town, which is why it’s only lit by the odd streetlight every
few hundred yards.
I walk on for five minutes, and then the lane bends gently to the right
through a thicket of trees, most still clinging to their leaves. The previously
flat terrain then begins to slope upwards towards a point some hundred
yards away. My ultimate destination is at the top of the slope: Horseshoe
Bridge.
Constructed in the early Victorian era, Horseshoe Bridge passes over a
railway cutting and, on a bright day, you can see for almost a mile in either
direction. For that reason, it was the ideal place for a young Thomas
Spalding to indulge in his childhood hobby. Granddad told me he spent
many hours here, sitting on the brick wall while steam trains thundered past
some forty feet below.
I can’t remember the first time he brought me to Horseshoe Bridge, but I
was probably about Finn’s age. Although steam trains had long since
retired, it was still an exhilarating experience watching the modern
replacements pass by. Sometimes, Granddad would bring along a
Tupperware lunch box and cans of shandy, and we’d enjoy a picnic of ham
and pickle sandwiches made with crusty bread and homemade rock cakes.
Virtually every fond memory from my childhood involves Granddad, and
it’s no exaggeration to say he was the only person in my life I could rely on.
My dad was a waste of space, and I got used to not having him around.
However, when I was fifteen, Mum asked Granddad to look after me for a
fortnight when a friend invited her on holiday. So, I went to stay at his flat
while Mum jetted off to Mykonos in Greece. She met a waiter there and
never came back. I haven’t spoken to her since the day she left, so I don’t
know if she’s dead or alive, nor do I care.
I reach the bridge and lean against the damp, decaying brick wall
separating the lane from a drop to the tracks below. Although there’s a
streetlight only twenty feet away, its tepid light doesn’t quite reach into the
dark void. Still, a train will pass by at some point, its carriages strobing
light across the steep banks and the headlights illuminating the tracks.
For now, though, I can only think of two words to describe the scene:
dark and gloomy.
“Figures,” I mumble under my breath.
Weighed down by negative thoughts, I try to remember the last time I
visited Horseshoe Bridge with Granddad. Was it before or after Mum
fucked off? It’s all a blur, really, not helped by the amount of alcohol
sloshing around my system.
Unable to summon the requested memory, my thoughts wander off in a
different direction — a darker direction.
In the months after Granddad’s death, I called The Samaritans four times.
The fourth call almost never happened. An hour before I dialled the
number, I’d already consumed half a bottle of vodka and was about to
swallow the first of twenty sleeping pills. To this day, I don’t know why I
waited or chose to make the call rather than continue with my original plan.
Did I make the wrong decision?
 Before that fateful evening, I’d become obsessed with my own funeral. I
tried to imagine how many people might attend and what they’d say about
the dead teenager in the wooden casket. I imagined Dad crying crocodile
tears, but those tears would have dried by the time he got to the wake, likely
held at the nearest pub. He’d have milked my passing for as many free
drinks as possible. Then, once he’d had his fill, he’d have slithered away,
leaving the bill for the buffet unpaid.
As for Mum, I doubt she’d have even turned up. She might have paid the
local florist a few quid to deliver a spray of carnations to the church, but
only to offset her guilt. That assumes Mum is even capable of feeling guilt.
Her actions suggest she probably isn’t.
Thirteen years on from the last time I imagined my own funeral, I
wonder how it might look a few weeks from now. Dad would still cry his
crocodile tears and get drunk at the wake, and Mum, if she isn’t already in a
wooden casket of her own, would do no more than send flowers. I doubt
any of my work colleagues, past or present, would bother showing up, and I
rarely see any of the people I would consider mates these days, so I’m not
sure they’d take half a day off work.
Then there’s Chloe and Finn.
When I stood next to Chloe at the altar seven years ago, we vowed to
love and cherish one another till death do us part. What I know about love
is that it’s easy to proclaim but difficult to maintain. Perhaps there was a
point in the past when both my parents loved me, but their subsequent
actions proved how fleeting and fickle that love really was.
Is Chloe any different to my parents?
I’m sure she’d cry at my funeral, and the sense of loss would linger for
weeks, months, maybe. Chloe, though, is a resolute woman, and once my
life insurance policy had paid out, she could move on and begin a new life.
That life would likely include a new house: an Edwardian semi with
character and charm. In time, her new life would also include a new man.
As for Finn, he’s still at the age where he wouldn’t understand my
passing. Chloe would tell him that Daddy is in heaven, and before long, I’d
become nothing more than a vague memory. Within a year, he’d likely have
another man he could call Daddy, and maybe that man will prove himself
an upgrade on the original. He’ll probably be a better husband too, and
Chloe won’t feel the need to have sex with anyone else.
 Thirty-two years of life, and if it ended now, the world would be no
worse off, and the people in my life would all move on. Some quicker than
others but, in the end, the name Jake Mason would become a minor
footnote. He lived, he died, and no one really cared either way.
I dig my hands into my pockets and, leaning against the brick wall, allow
it to take my entire weight. Despite its age and condition, the wall is highly
unlikely to give way. To test that theory, I shift my stance so I’m on the
balls of my feet. I push harder. Unsurprisingly, the wall still doesn’t give
way. Of more surprise is the slight sense of disappointment.
On reflection, the wall’s stability isn’t an issue, being it’s barely four feet
high. If I were so inclined, I could easily hop onto the ledge and let gravity
pull me into the void. Quick, clean, and likely painless.
If I were so inclined.
Am I?
Asking myself that question should be cause for concern.
Without consciously instructing my hand, it reaches into a pocket and
pulls out my mobile phone. I unlock the screen and tap the icon to make a
call. Only then do I notice the lack of any signal, being that I’m currently in
a rural blackspot.
There won’t be a fifth call to The Samaritans.
I return the phone to my back pocket and stare into the dark abyss. All I
need is one glimmer of hope, one single particle of light at the end of the
tunnel.
I think long, and I think hard. Nothing comes.
Whatever route my thoughts take, they all end in the same place. I bow
my head and draw a series of long breaths. The silence is overbearing, and
the heavy air is claustrophobic. I close my eyes and cough back the bile in
my throat.
“Are you waiting for a train?”
The voice, and indeed the question, is so unexpected I actually gasp.
With my heart in my mouth, I spin around. Standing six feet away is a short
figure dressed head-to-toe in black, but it’s not his attire that’s most striking
— that would be his perfectly spherical head and complete lack of hair.
Pitched against the black backdrop, it’s almost as if I’m looking at a
football floating in the air, albeit a football with a face.
“Jesus,” I pant, one hand resting on my chest. “You scared the shit out of
me.”
 “You have defecated in your underwear?” he asks.
I await a smile that doesn’t come. His question, it seems, is genuine.
“Eh? No, I didn’t literally shit myself.”
“It was not my intention to scare you. I merely asked a question.”
I take a couple of deep breaths to settle my still-racing heart.
“About a train?”
“Correct. Are you waiting for a train?”
“No.”
“If you are not waiting for a train, what is the purpose of you being
here?”
“No offence, but that’s none of your business.”
Offended or not, he doesn’t react to my comment, but he does step over
to the wall. His shoulders are only a few inches above the top, which scales
his height to an inch or two over five feet. Shorter than I initially estimated.
Craning his neck, he peers over the edge.
“Fourteen minutes,” he then says.
“Pardon?”
“The next train will pass in fourteen minutes.”
“Good to know, but as I said, I wasn’t waiting for a train.”
He steps back from the wall and looks directly up at me.
“Were you not?”
“As I said, no.”
“If you had jumped, the likelihood of death from the resulting impact
would be no more than twenty-six per cent. More likely, you would have
suffered multiple bone fractures and experienced significant pain. However,
if a train were to strike you, the chance of death rises to ninety-one per
cent.”
I stare back at the strange little man, open-mouthed.
“Sorry … what on earth makes you think I was about to jump?”
“Were you?”
“I refer you to my earlier answer — that’s none of your business.”
“You do not know that. What if I were on my way to catch a train? Your
actions would cause a delay, so your intentions are my business and that of
the passengers on the train, the driver, the guard, and the railway staff
tasked with clearing your various body parts from the track.”
His words, as well as the coldness of the delivery, prove a sobering
combination. I scramble for a response.
 “Well, err … were you on the way to catch a train?”
“No.”
“So … why …”
Either I’m experiencing a premature hangover, or this conversation is
bringing on a headache. I pinch the bridge of my nose for a few seconds.
“Are you intoxicated?” the man then asks. “I can smell alcohol on your
breath.”
“A bit, yes.”
“Is that why you are having difficulty with your thoughts?”
“Who said I was having difficulty with my thoughts?”
“I did, barely three seconds ago. You also appear to have a problem with
your short-term memory.”
“Eh? No, there’s nothing wrong with my memory.”
“Merely your thoughts, then?”
This encounter, even if I’d experienced it sober, in a coffee shop, while in
a better frame of mind, would still rank as bizarre. Here, now, on a bridge in
a rural lane, in the dark, with no one else around, it ranks as fucking creepy.
“I, err … I’d better be going. It’s late.”
“It could be late, or it could be early, depending on your point of
reference.”
“It’s late, and I’ve had a nightmare of a day, so you’ll excuse me if I head
off now.”
“Before you leave, I have something for you.”
He takes another step forward while slipping a hand into the inside
pocket of his jacket.
“Take this,” he says, holding out what looks like a business card.
Tentatively, I reach out and take the card.
“Why do I need this?”
“Because you do, and once the effects of the alcohol have worn off, you
will know why.”
I glance at the card. Plain white, it contains only two pieces of
information: a telephone number and a name.
“This is your name?” I snort. “Seriously?”
“It is the name I go by, yes.”
“Mungo Thunk?”
“My name amuses you?”
 There’s no intonation in his voice, and his expression remains
unreadable.
“I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just an unusual name.”
“All names are unusual. They are merely a collection of vowels and
consonants arranged to produce a particular sound. Adam, for example.”
“Adam isn’t an unusual name.”
“Repeat it aloud ten times, and then tell me it is not unusual.”
He stares back at me, silent.
“Oh. You actually want me to say the name Adam ten times?”
“To prove my point, yes.”
“Alright,” I sigh. “I’ll play along.”
He nods.
“Adam, Adam, Adam …”
I stop after the eighth repetition. Even to my own ear, it does sound
strange, like a random humph or grunt.
“I take your point.”
“Because it is valid.”
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, nice chat.”
Short of dropping the business card on the floor or handing it back to
him, I don’t know what to do with it other than slip it into my pocket.
“I am an expert in human thoughts and emotions,” he then announces.
“When you are ready to accept my expertise, dial the telephone number on
the card, and I will propose a strategy.”
“A strategy?”
“To fix your broken thinking. That is why you are here, is it not?”
I scratch my head as Mungo Thunk stares up at me, unblinking.
“Err …”
“I must leave now. Goodbye, Jake Mason.”
With that, he turns around and strides away, stiff-limbed but purposeful.
Eventually, he disappears into the darkness, and the sound of his footsteps
fades away.
It’s a measure of how slowly my brain is functioning that a good thirty
seconds pass before it poses an obvious yet troubling question — how the
fuck did he know my name?
 11
Slowly, painfully, I return to consciousness. A brief systems check
confirms a pounding headache, a dry mouth, and low-key nausea. Together,
all three symptoms point towards an obvious conclusion: I am hungover.
I open my eyes and confirm my whereabouts. I’m lying on the bed in the
spare bedroom, fully clothed. My trainers are paired neatly on the floor, and
the curtains are drawn, so maybe I wasn’t as drunk as my hangover
suggests. Then, I spot the note on the bedside table. Without even reading
it, I recognise my wife’s handwriting.
I’ve taken Finn to school, as you’re likely over the limit still. I’ll call you
later — we need to talk.
No pleasantries, no kiss. It’s safe to say my wife was not in a good mood
when she scribbled this note. I screw it into a ball and toss it toward the
waste basket. It misses.
Knowing I don’t have to do the school run, I consider going back to
sleep, but then I notice the time.
“Shit!”
A shot of panic propels me from the bed, but it’s short-lived. Do I really
care if I’m late for another day of drudgery at TechWorld? Can I be
bothered going in at all? It’s not like my old job, where I’d struggle in even
when I felt like death, knowing people and projects depended on my being
there.
I compose a text to Barry, confirming I won’t be in because I’ve got a
stomach bug. It’s unoriginal but reasonably close to the truth. Excuse
delivered, I slip the phone back into my pocket and traipse downstairs in
search of painkillers and a heavily caffeinated beverage.
After gulping down a couple of paracetamol and making a mug of strong
coffee, I head to the lounge. Slouched on the sofa and still groggy-headed, I
try to piece together yesterday’s events. The piecing process begins with a
candlelit bath and then a few minutes of wild sex in the bedroom before our
marital truce imploded. It’s not a scene I’m keen to linger on and flush it
from my thoughts.
Running through the timeline, I recall the hours in The White Horse, and
I couldn’t say for sure, but I left around nine o’clock. Then, I walked to
Horseshoe Bridge.
A particularly dark memory returns.
Did I really contemplate jumping to my death? What the fuck was I
thinking? Was I thinking at all?
Not wishing to dwell on either question, I reach for the remote control
and switch the TV on. The distraction is short-lived when another memory
from last night crashes in — the stumpy oddball who seemingly appeared
from nowhere. I can’t remember his name but I do remember he used mine,
even though I never introduced myself.
I close my eyes and piece together remnants of memories. Then, it hits
me — the business card. Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out the piece
of white card and study it. At the very least, it’s proof that I didn’t imagine
what happened at Horseshoe Bridge, and it confirms the name I couldn’t
remember. However, it doesn’t answer my question: how did Mungo Thunk
know my name? Before I get a chance to consider that question, my phone
buzzes. It’s the promised call from Chloe.
“Hey,” I answer, unenthusiastically.
“Hi. I wanted to catch you before work.”
“I called in sick.”
“Why?”
“Because … does it matter?”
“Not in the grand scheme of things, no.”
“So, what did you want to talk about?”
“What happened yesterday? Why did you run off like that?”
“I needed to clear my head.”
“Get drunk, you mean?”
“I think I had good reason to get drunk, don’t you?”
“No, not really. I thought we’d finally turned a corner until you kicked
off.”
“I kicked off because you said another man’s—”
“No,” Chloe forcibly interjects. “I know what I said, and it definitely
wasn’t Dave.”
“So you say, but I can’t trust you anymore.”
“Which leads me to the point of this call. I want to ask you a question —
an important question.”
There’s a slight pause before Chloe continues.
“Am I wasting my time trying to save our marriage?”
 “I don’t know.”
“That’s not good enough, Jake. But, as you’re not at work, you’ve got all
day to consider an answer.”
I’m still not fully awake, and the painkillers have yet to do their job. This
is the last thing I need.
“We’ll talk later, okay?”
“I mean it. I want an answer by the end of the day.”
“Yes, I heard you.”
I hang up and toss the phone on the sofa.
After ten minutes of sipping coffee and watching mindless television, I
return to the kitchen and slide a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.
While I’m waiting, I drop Mungo Thunk’s business card in the bin. I don’t
have the bandwidth to care how he knew my name.
I eat breakfast, shower, and return to the lounge feeling slightly less
dreadful, physically at least. Since the moment she asked it, Chloe’s
question has set up residence in my mind and it won’t leave. Is she wasting
her time trying to save our marriage?
It doesn’t take much thinking to realise how binary the options are. If I
decide Chloe isn’t wasting her time, we continue along the same path with
no obvious resolution at the end. If I say she is wasting her time, however,
that’s it — we’re over. That would lead to divorce, and we’d probably have
to sell the house. It would also lead to the question of custody over Finn.
Which of us would become his full-time parent?
Besides the thought of going through a divorce and ending up on the
losing side of a custody battle, there’s another reason why I’m not ready to
accept our marriage is over: I still love my wife. The issue is, will that love
ever eclipse the hate in my heart? I hate what Chloe did, and I hate the
bastard who did it with her. Is that ever going to change? They say time is
supposed to be a great healer, but my wounds feel as raw today as they did
seven weeks ago, and I doubt I’ll feel any better seven weeks from now.
I puff a long sigh and close my eyes. Chloe might want an answer, but I
don’t have one. All I know is that I don’t want to continue feeling like this.
A sudden and dull throb at the top of my skull reminds me that I’m in no
fit state for thinking. It’s also a reminder that I need to find better
painkillers. For now, though, a nap is likely the only solution.
I turn off the TV and settle back on the sofa.
Sleep comes quickly.
 12
I awake with a start, my heart pounding and skin clammy.
“What the …”
It takes a long moment to realise I’m on the sofa in the lounge, and not
where I thought I was.
“Just a bad dream,” I pant, reassuring myself.
The reassurance only works to a degree. I’ve never woken from a bad
dream feeling like I actually lived through the horrors my mind conjured up
— until now.
As I reach for the TV remote, a flashback to my nightmare surfaces. It’s
not an experience I want to relive, but my mind won’t let it go. Scene by
awful scene, the memories cascade.
The first of those memories is relatively benign. I arrived home from
work and kicked my shoes off in the hall. Then, I traipsed up the stairs to
change out of my god-awful TechWorld uniform. As I reached the bedroom
door, I heard a squeal — not of pain, but pleasure. I charged into the
bedroom and …
“Jesus,” I gulp.
The following scene turned the dream into a nightmare — two familiar
figures on the bed, both naked. Dad was lying on his back, and Chloe sat
astride him, grinding hard. It took a few seconds for them to notice me, but
when they did, they just looked up and smiled.
“Alright, Boy?” Dad asked, cheerfully. “Good day at work?”
“I’ll start dinner once we’re done,” Chloe casually added.
They returned their attention to one another as Chloe took my dad’s
hands and placed them on her breasts. Stunned, all I could do was stand and
watch as my dad’s flabby stomach wobbled with every thrust of Chloe’s
hips.
“Ohh, Ron,” my wife purred. “You’re so good.”
Dad looked up at me. “I hope you’re taking notes, Son,” he remarked.
“This is how you keep a woman happy.”
At that point, any self-respecting man would have vocalised his disgust
or physically intervened. Not me. I remained frozen as my dad and my wife
banged on towards a crescendo, timing their respective orgasms with
pinpoint precision.
Their frenzy over, Chloe lay down by Dad’s side, and they each lit a
cigarette. I think it was at that point I felt the first stomach spasm. The
second was strong enough to induce a dry retch. Fearing I was about to
vomit, I somehow managed to turn around, intent on rushing to the
bathroom. There was a problem, though — the door had disappeared.
Confused, I spun around, only to find the room completely empty: no bed,
no furniture, no Dad, no Chloe.
Trapped, I rushed over to the window and grabbed the handle. It
wouldn’t budge, but my concern quickly shifted to the scene on the other
side of the glass. Looking down at the path that leads to the main road, three
figures were walking away from the house, hand-in-hand: Dad, Chloe, and
between them, Finn.
I pulled the handle on the window with all my might but to no avail.
Frantically, I spun around, hoping there might be something, anything, that
I could use to break the glass. The room remained as empty as it was a
minute earlier.
The panic mounted.
Turning back to the window, I began pounding my fists against the glass,
screaming Finn’s name. If he heard me, he didn’t turn around. The three of
them continued walking until they were out of sight. Then, within a matter
of seconds, the scene changed. Even in October, it usually takes an hour for
daylight to fade to dusk. I watched it happen in seconds.
So, there I was, trapped in an empty room, staring out on a silent, pitch-
black scene until one solitary streetlight flickered on. A figure then stepped
into the cone of light illuminating the pavement opposite our house. He
looked up at me and shook his head. I stared down, aghast, as Mungo
Thunk then turned and slowly strolled away. Whatever happened next, it
was enough to wake me up.
I switch the TV on and scan the channels for a suitable distraction,
settling on a show about vintage cars. My pulse slows, and normality
returns. Even so, I don’t think I’ll forget my nightmare in a hurry, and the
next time Dad visits, whenever that might be, I won’t be leaving him alone
with Chloe.
Rather than focus on the dream itself, I consider what caused my mind to
create such horrors. As I didn’t eat a kilo of hard Stilton before I fell asleep,
I can only put it down to stress.
I get up and wander through to the kitchen. I’m hungry, and the clock on
the wall confirms why — it’s 1.22 pm. It didn’t feel like it, but I slept for
over four hours. I’ve enough time to make a sandwich, and then I need to
think about the school run.
After I’ve finished my late lunch and deposited the plate in the
dishwasher, I glance out of the kitchen window at the cloudless blue sky.
Seeing as it’s a pleasant afternoon, weather-wise at least, maybe I’ll walk to
the school rather than drive. I could do with some fresh air, and the exercise
should help blow the lingering remnants of the nightmare from my mind.
Half an hour later, and way too early, I set off.
Rather than walk directly to the school, I take a detour to add another
mile to my journey. I quickly settle into a rhythm, and my elevated heart
rate and the warm October sun improve my mood slightly.
I arrive at the school a minute or two later than I estimated, so there’s
already a gaggle of parents waiting at the classroom door. I’m about to
check the Aldervale fans’ forum on my phone when one of the parents
breaks from the others and approaches.
“Hey, Jake.”
“Oh. Hi, Rachel.”
“It was lovely having Finn over yesterday, and I think Alfie is keen to do
it again soon if you’ve no objections?”
“Well, as it happens, I was going to suggest Alfie comes over to ours for
the day during half term. It only seems fair after you invited Finn over.”
I presumed Rachel would leap at the idea of someone else entertaining
her son for a whole day during half term — I know I would. Her crooked
smile and lack of an immediate reply suggest she’s not thrilled about the
idea.
“That is kind of you,” she says coyly. “But, um … God, this is
awkward.”
“What is?”
She steps closer and slyly checks that none of the other parents are
earwigging our conversation.
“This is none of my business,” she says in a low voice. “But when I
dropped Finn off last night, it was pretty clear that your wife … Chloe,
right?”
“Yes.”
 “Okay, it was pretty clear that Chloe had been crying. I might have
casually asked where you were and she … she was struggling to keep it
together.”
“Ah, I’m sorry. We had a disagreement over dinner, and I might have
stormed off to the pub. I’m sorry that Chloe made you feel uncomfortable.”
“She didn’t, but I hope you can understand that I’d rather not expose
Alfie to negative energy, and I sensed a lot of it during my short chat with
Chloe.”
“As I said, it was just a silly row. A storm in a teacup.”
“I’m sure, but … I hate to tell you this, but Finn told Alfie that his
parents are angry all the time.”
I open my mouth, but no words follow. I’d be less stunned if Rachel had
suddenly swung her handbag and caught me square in the nuts.
“I, err … I’m sure Finn would love to come over to yours.”
Rachel places her hand on my arm, and the wonky smile reappears. I
presume it’s supposed to be sympathetic.
“Thanks for understanding, and whatever difficulties you’re going
through, I hope you can get past them. Finn’s a lovely boy, and you both
seem like good people.”
We are, or we were.
The classroom door opens, and Rachel takes her cue to leave. I want to
be angry at her, but would I have acted differently if the roles were
reversed? Anger isn’t appropriate, but shame is.
The second Finn exits the classroom, I grab his hand and lead him away.
Rachel doesn’t strike me as the gossipy type, but it still feels like a dozen
pairs of judgemental eyes are watching as I skulk away.
We pass the gates and continue for another hundred yards. I stop and
squat down to talk to my son.
“I hear you had a good time at Alfie’s yesterday. Would you like to go to
his house again?”
He nods enthusiastically.
“Okay, cool. I’ll speak to his mum.”
Finn stares back, barely a hint of emotion in his eyes. The shame I felt
after my conversation with Rachel returns with a vengeance.
“I thought we’d walk home today as the sun is shining. And … how
would you like to visit the park on the way?”
My offer receives a weak smile.
 “If the ice cream van is there, maybe we can get one of those lollies you
like?”
The smile widens. It’s accompanied by a positive nod.
“That sounds like a plan, then. Let’s do it.”
It’s not far to Greendale Park, which is just as well because the
conversation en route is decidedly one-way. We arrive, and Finn does what
he always does once he passes through the gate — he charges off in search
of playmates and adventure.
I sit down on the bench and, for once, keep my phone in my pocket. All I
want to see is my four-year-old son acting like a typical four-year-old boy.
After swinging from the monkey bars for a few minutes, Finn drops to
the floor and races towards the wooden fort. Roughly the size of a small
garden shed and raised on stilts, there are three methods of gaining access: a
metal ladder, a rope walkway, and a ramp for the less confident kids. Finn
being Finn, he chooses the rope walkway. Step by step, he eventually
reaches the archway into the nearest side of the fort and disappears inside.
The archway isn’t much bigger than the average child, so it’s nearly
impossible to see inside the fort, but maybe that’s the point. It’s a space
where the kids can play out their fantasies without the prying eyes of
parents watching their every move. When I was young, I yearned for a
treehouse, but it was only a pipe dream because our flat didn’t have a
garden, never mind a tree.
I keep an eye on the fort, and after a few minutes, a particularly smiley
girl of Finn’s age appears at the ladder and climbs down. He might know
the girl, or he might not, but I wish I could have listened in on their
conversation. I can only imagine what the kids discuss when they’re hiding
away in the fort.
A few more minutes pass, but there’s still no sign of Finn leaving his
post. An ice cream van pulls up on the main road and announces its arrival
with a tinkly rendition of Pop Goes the Weasel. If the imminent prospect of
an ice lolly doesn’t lure my son out, nothing will.
Another minute passes, and my impatience edges towards concern. I get
up and stride over to the fort, calling out Finn’s name as I approach. To my
relief, he appears in the archway.
“There you are. The ice cream van is here.”
He nods.
“Well, did you want an ice lolly?”
 Rather than answer with his usual nod, he turns his head to the left and
appears to mutter a few words over his shoulder. Several seconds pass
before he turns back to face me.
“No, thanks, Daddy.”
It’s all I can do to remain upright. Finn just spoke to me — actual words.
Ironically, I’m now the one rendered mute.
“Err … um, okay …”
He flashes a grin and then disappears back inside the fort. My gut instinct
is to poke my head inside and speak to him again, to hear his voice once
more and confirm I didn’t imagine it. But if I interrupt him, he might slam
the shutters down again.
I need to tread carefully. Very carefully.
Returning to the bench, I call Chloe. She answers on the fifth ring.
“It’s me,” I bluster.
“Yes, I know.”
I pull a couple of breaths to regain composure.
“Finn spoke to me.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. We’re at the park, and I asked if he wanted a lolly. He
said, no thanks, Daddy.”
“Oh, my God,” Chloe gasps. “Did he say anything else?”
“Not yet. He’s in the fort at the moment, and I didn’t want to stick my
head in there and pressurise him into talking.”
“No, I agree … you did the right thing.”
“Did I? I’m not sure I did.”
“Remember what the therapist said about allowing Finn to work through
this at his own pace. Now he’s said something to you, maybe that’s his first
step. Just behave like everything is normal, as it was before.”
“Yeah, yeah. Okay.”
I hear Chloe swallow hard on the other end of the line.
“Thank you for telling me,” she says, her voice close to breaking.
“It’s okay. I’d better go.”
“Alright. I’ll see you around half-five.”
I say goodbye and return my attention to the fort. Long minutes pass, and
the ice cream van eventually pulls away. Not a single child enters or leaves
the fort, including Finn. How long do I give it before checking up on him?
Five minutes? Ten? After almost five years of parenting, it feels like I’m
back to day one and clueless.
I wait another five minutes and settle on a strategy. I’ll take a lazy walk
over to the other side of the fort and, from a distance, risk a casual glance
inside.
With my hands in my pockets, I whistle a random tune and walk in a
wide arc around the side of the fort, keeping a good ten feet away. I pass the
side with the metal ladder, but with the low sun directly above the roofline,
I can’t see much. I continue on, kicking at the leaves on the grass verge so
that it looks like I’m casually strolling along. I reach the side of the fort
with the wooden ramp, and just as I crane my neck to get a better look
inside, Finn appears in the archway.
He spots me, and his face lights up. “Daddy, would you like to meet my
friend?”
Play it cool, Jake. Play it cool.
“Yeah, sure,” I reply.
Once again, Finn mumbles a few words over his shoulder. He then takes
a couple of steps down the ramp while beckoning his friend to follow. A
moment later, a figure ducks through the archway and stands upright.
Unwilling to believe the evidence of my own eyes, I screw them shut.
When I open them again, he’s still there.
“This is Mungo,” Finn chirps. “My friend.”
 13
Caught like a deer in headlights, I don’t know how to react. My first and
overwhelming instinct is to snatch Finn up, kick Mungo Thunk in the face,
and leave. However, the fact my son is standing right next to Thunk,
smiling up at him, is reason enough to pause. After weeks of sullen silence,
Finn is talking again, and there’s more than a glimpse of the child he once
was. How can I do anything to undermine this minor miracle?
“Hello, Mungo,” I say through gritted teeth. “Nice to see you … again.”
“Daddy, can Mungo come to our house for dinner?”
I can almost hear Chloe’s voice in my head, imploring me to remain calm
for Finn’s sake. Then again, she’s not here, and I can’t imagine she’d react
positively to our son playing in a fort with some random weirdo.
“That’s a lovely idea, Finn, but I’m sure Mungo is very busy … aren’t
you, Mungo?”
I reinforce my message with a stern glare.
“No,” he replies. “I am available for dinner.”
Finn begins jumping up and down and clapping his hands in excitement.
“I want to show Mungo my Lego, and we can watch SpongeBob.”
“What is a SpongeBob?” Mungo asks.
“He’s a sponge, and he lives in a pineapple under the sea,” Finn replies,
part-singing the theme tune.
“Under the sea?”
“Yes.”
“In a pineapple?”
“Yes!” Finn laughs. “In a pineapple.”
“And he is a sponge?”
Mungo then looks up at me. “I am interested in learning more about
SpongeBob” he says, dryly. “I will visit your home at 5.00 pm.”
“Oh, will you now?” I snarl back. “Over my—”
“When is that, Daddy?” Finn pipes up, his eyes pleading. “Is it soon?”
The situation is utterly insane, but my options are limited. I can’t risk
upsetting Finn, but there’s no way I’m letting some short-arse freak into our
house. In lieu of an obvious way out of my dilemma, all I can do is
postpone it.
 “It’s about forty minutes from now,” I confirm to Finn. “Enough time for
us to get home and for you to change out of your uniform.”
“Yay!” he squeals. “We’re having dinner with Mungo.”
We are definitely not having dinner with Mungo, and I’ve got forty
minutes to work out how to break that news to my son without upsetting
him.
“Say goodbye, Finn.”
I put my hand on his shoulder and guide him away.
“Bye, Mungo. See you at dinner.”
“Goodbye, Finn Mason.”
Without another glance in my direction, Mungo Thunk turns and strides
towards the gate. I watch him all the way to the main road until he’s out of
sight.
“Right, mate. Let’s get you home.”
A few hundred yards later, Finn hasn’t said a word. I don’t want to push
him, but I need to hear his voice again.
“What would you like for dinner?”
He shrugs. I try another question.
“How did you meet Mungo?”
No response.
“Did you have a good day at school?”
He nods, and my shoulders slump. The feeling of loss is so profound, I
can only compare it to the time I waited at the hospital after Granddad’s
heart attack. Initially, the doctor told me that Granddad was stable and not
in any imminent danger. I was so relieved, but within an hour, he was no
longer stable, or alive.
We arrive home and I tell Finn to go and get changed. As he hurries
away, still silent, I call Chloe.
“What’s up?” she asks.
“I need you to come home as soon as possible.”
“Why?” she replies, slight panic in her voice. “Has something happened
to Finn?”
“Yes, but it’s nothing to fret over. There’s a slight situation developing,
and I really need you here.”
“You’re not making any sense, Jake. What kind of situation?”
“Just come home, please. It’ll take me longer to explain than for you to
drive here.”
 “Okay. I’m leaving now.”
I’m about to return the phone to my pocket, but it occurs to me that
maybe I should make another call. I then consider how that call might play
out. Are the police likely to come running after I tell them my son invited
his new friend over to watch SpongeBob SquarePants and dine on chicken
nuggets?
It doesn’t take long to conclude that calling the police at this point might
not be sensible. That option removed, I’ve got twenty-five minutes to
devise a plan.
By the time Finn bowls into the kitchen, I’ve got a vague idea of how I
will deal with Mungo Thunk.
“Shall we have chicken nuggets for dinner?”
He nods, and then looks up at the clock on the wall, his brow furrowed
by concentration lines. I’ve been so distracted of late that I’ve not kept
abreast of my son’s education. While he was at home, I knew exactly what
Finn did and didn’t know, but now he’s at school, his educational
development could well have covered the basics of time.
“Mungo will be here in about ten minutes,” I confirm.
He doesn’t say if he understands how long ten minutes is, but Finn seems
happy with my statement. He smiles and then shoots off to the lounge. I, on
the other hand, make my way up to the first-floor landing. Once there, I
take up position at a window overlooking the street. I could have chosen the
window in our bedroom, but after my earlier nightmare, I’m not keen to
relive it by standing in the same spot with the same view.
My plan is simple. The second I see Mungo Thunk on the street, I’ll rush
outside and intercept him before he gets anywhere near our house. Then,
I’ll make it clear that he won’t be joining us for dinner and if he steps
within five-hundred yards of Finn again, I’ll report him to the police. If that
doesn’t sink in, I’ll have to resort to the threat of physical violence.
Trainers on, poised for action, I wait.
Five minutes pass, and only two cars drive by the house, neither slowing
down. Thunk never confirmed how he planned to get here, or …
The realisation arrives like a punch between the eyes. Mungo Thunk
doesn’t know our address. Another few seconds of thought undermines that
assumption — maybe Finn told him. I could nip downstairs and check, but
it’s 4.58 pm. If the doorbell rings while I’m in the lounge, bang goes the
opportunity to enact my threat.
 I don’t suppose it matters if Finn told Thunk our address. He’ll either turn
up or he won’t. Either way, he won’t be speaking to my son again.
One minute to go, I focus on the street, scanning both pavements as far as
I can see in either direction. Another car passes by, but it doesn’t stop. A
middle-aged woman wanders past with a French Bulldog on a lead. The dog
stops to sniff our neighbour’s gate post and promptly marks it with a cock
of his leg. Chloe talked about getting a dog for Finn, but I wasn’t keen. The
thought of traipsing the streets in all weathers and scooping still-warm turds
from the pavement held little appeal.
I check my watch — 5.00 pm precisely.
After another scan of the empty street, I relax a touch. Thunk might be
running late, but I get the impression he’s the punctual type. In this case,
I’m now hopeful he’s the not-turning-up-at-all type.
As I watch another dog walker shuffle past the house, Finn’s voice
suddenly echoes up from the kitchen. The fact he’s talking again is a huge
relief, but who on earth is he talking to?
I thump down the stairs and head straight to the kitchen, where I’m
greeted by an excited Finn.
“Daddy, Daddy!” he beams. “Mungo is here.”
“Yes, mate,” I reply flatly. “I can see that.”
“Hello, Jake Mason,” Thunk says, almost robotically.
I glare down at him whilst simultaneously wishing I could kick myself. It
never occurred to me that he might use the back door, and now Mungo
Thunk is standing in our kitchen, probably wondering what’s for dinner.
“Hello, Mungo,” I spit back.
If looks could kill, our guest would already be lying in a pool of his own
blood. Alas, they don’t, and Thunk remains standing, seemingly
unperturbed by the coldness of my greeting.
“How long is dinner?” Finn then asks.
“About an hour.”
“Did you hear that, Mungo?” he says, grinning up at the bald-headed
loon. “We’ve got time to watch SpongeBob.”
My son then leads his new pal out of the kitchen while I remain where I
am, dumbfounded. How did I let this happen? More to the point, what do I
do now? It’s the exact same dilemma I faced in the park. Yes, I could march
into the lounge, grab Thunk by the throat, and make it clear he’s to stay
away from my son, but at what cost? Finn is happy, smiling, and, most
importantly, talking. Whatever I do, I can’t jeopardise the sudden and
dramatic change in his behaviour.
With no solution forthcoming, I hurry into the lounge. Finn and Thunk
are both on the sofa, at opposite ends, as the opening credits to the
SpongeBob Movie play on the TV. Finn is in a cross-legged position while
Thunk is sitting bolt upright, his hands resting on his knees.
“Are you watching with us, Daddy?” Finn asks.
“Err, yeah.”
I edge over to an armchair and lower myself down, keeping my eyes
trained on Thunk. His attention, however, appears to be intently focused on
the TV.
Five minutes into the movie, I have to pinch myself to confirm I’m not
experiencing another nightmare. Granted, it’s more surreal than terrifying,
but it’s no less bizarre.
“What is Patrick?” Thunk asks.
“He’s a starfish,” Finn replies.
“Asteroidea.”
“What’s that?”
“It is the Latin name for a starfish.”
Finn ponders the information for a moment. “Patrick is a nicer name,” he
concludes.
“That name also has Latin origins. It is from Patricius, and it means, of
noble origin.”
“Give me strength,” I mutter to myself.
The front door opens and closes, and before I can get to my feet, Chloe
bustles into the lounge.
“Mummy!” Finn screams in delight as he leaps off the sofa.
I’m still trying to work out an explanation when Finn locks his arms
around Chloe’s waist. She hasn’t received a welcome home hug in weeks,
and from the look on her face, she seems genuinely overwhelmed that her
little boy is back. However, my wife is only able to savour the moment
briefly before she notices the cueball-headed man on the sofa. He, in turn,
seems oblivious to Chloe’s arrival.
My wife looks at me and mouths a question: who is he?
I get to my feet. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
I don’t want to leave my son with Thunk, but before I can guide him out
of the lounge, he releases Chloe from his hug and dashes back to the sofa.
 “Do you want to come and have a chat with Mummy and me?” I ask.
“My favourite bit is coming up, Daddy. Chat later.”
With no obvious alternative, I quickly guide Chloe to the kitchen. I do,
however, ensure the lounge door remains wide open. We might not be able
to witness Thunk murder our son, but at least we’ll be able to hear it.
“What’s going on?” my wife asks in a hushed voice. “And, who’s that
man sitting on our sofa?”
I don’t want to leave Finn unsupervised a second longer than necessary,
so I relay the heavily edited highlights of my first encounter with Mungo
Thunk.
“What were you doing at Horseshoe Bridge at that time of night?” Chloe
asks.
“Um, nothing. I just wanted a bit of space to think.”
She fixes me with a look that hints at suspicion but could equally be
concern.
“I didn’t think anything of it,” I continue. “Until he turned up at the play
park earlier.”
I then explain what happened in the fort.
“And to make matters worse,” I continue. “As soon as Thunk buggered
off, Finn slammed the shutters down again. He didn’t say a word on the
way home or when we got here.”
“And yet, he’s talking again now.”
“Only after Thunk arrived.”
Chloe takes a moment to process my revelations. I’ve had hours, and I’m
still confused.
“Who is he?” she eventually asks.
“You know as much as I do.”
“He must have said something last night, surely?”
“Well, kind of, but it didn’t make any sense.”
“What exactly did he say to you?”
“I can’t remember all of it because I was … I’d had a few beers, but he
talked about trains, and then he said he could fix my thinking.”
Chloe adopts another expression — one I’m able to decipher because
I’ve seen it before.
“Don’t you get any ideas,” I spit. “He’s a fucking fruitcake.”
“A fruitcake who’s managed to get our son talking again. Not even the
therapist managed that.”
 “That’s as maybe, but he could be a serial killer or a paedo for all we
know.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the sound of Finn’s laughter.
“God, I’ve missed hearing him laugh,” Chloe sighs. “More than I ever
thought possible.”
“I know. Me too.”
We share a moment of reflection and for the first time in a long while, the
same emotion — sadness.
“What are we going to do about our guest then, Jake?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Maybe twenty minutes or so.”
“Finn seems to like being in his company.”
“I don’t think we can rely on the judgement of a four-year-old. We know
nothing about Thunk.”
“No, we don’t … but we could.”
“What?”
Without answering, Chloe moves a few steps to her left and switches the
oven on. She then turns back to face me with a steely determination in her
eyes.
“Our son wants him to stay for dinner, so that's what we’re going to do.”
“Are you insane?”
“Maybe, but whoever Mungo Thunk is, he’s done more for our son in an
hour than we’ve achieved in weeks. For that, I’m willing to give him the
benefit of the doubt.”
“Are you seriously suggesting we sit down and eat dinner with him?”
“You said we don’t know him, so what better way to find out who he is.
Then, we can decide how we go forward.”
I’m about to object, but another round of Finn’s laughter steals my
thunder. I’ve missed that sound as much as Chloe, and maybe my wife’s
pragmatic approach deserves a chance, however ridiculous it seems.
“Fine, I’ll set the table,” I huff. “But if this backfires, it’s on you.”
 14
Dinner in the oven, table laid, and a bottle of wine open, we take turns
checking in on Finn every few minutes. After what feels like an age, Chloe
returns from her shift.
“That was more than a quick check,” I remark. “What were you doing in
there?”
“I was talking to our guest.”
“About what?”
“Nothing really — he seemed distracted by the movie. I did ask about
dinner, though, and if he liked chicken nuggets.”
“And?”
“He said — and I quote — I do not eat the decomposing flesh of
domesticated junglefowl.”
“That’s a no, then?”
“He’s obviously vegetarian, or vegan. I didn’t clarify which, but what are
we supposed to serve him?”
“I don’t give a shit about his dietary requirements. If our chicken nuggets
aren’t good enough, he’ll have to make do with new potatoes and peas. He’s
here uninvited, remember?”
“Technically, Finn invited him, but I don’t disagree. I’d rather he invited
Alfie.”
Now is not the time to inform my wife that Alfie’s mum doesn’t want her
son visiting us because of the toxic atmosphere.
The timer on the oven beeps to confirm the nuggets are ready.
“Can you serve up?” Chloe asks. “I’ll go get Finn and Mungo.”
“Yeah, okay, but don’t say his name like that.”
“Whose name?”
“Bloody Thunk,” I snort. “He’s not welcome here, and I don’t want you
normalising this any more than we have to. This is a one-off, right, until we
work out what to do.”
“I know that,” my wife replies, defensively. “I’m only going through
with this for our son’s sake.”
She leaves the kitchen, and I set about transferring chicken nuggets to
three plates and potatoes and garden peas to four. I’m about done when
Chloe returns with Mungo.
“Finn’s washing his hands,” she confirms before turning to our so-called
guest. “Take a seat, Mungo.”
He sits down, and Chloe offers him a glass of wine.
“I do not drink beverages containing alcohol,” he replies.
“Oh, sorry.”
“I consumed alcohol once before, and I will never forget the sense of
regret the following morning.”
“I know what you mean,” Chloe chuckles. “Never again … until the next
time.”
Thunk doesn’t even raise a smile in response but then Finn bursts into the
kitchen, breaking the awkward silence. He takes a seat next to Thunk as I
transfer the dinner plates to the table.
“Enjoy,” I sneer, placing one of the plates in front of Thunk. He doesn’t
respond or say thank you.
I’ve endured some uncomfortable dinners over the last seven weeks but
trying to be civilised while sitting opposite a man I’d like to throttle is a
new level of strained. Fortunately, Finn and Chloe do most of the talking,
and as far as my son is concerned, the fact he’s talking at all is the only
reason I don’t stretch across the table and grab Thunk by the throat.
“So, Mungo,” Chloe says, cheerily. “Do you live locally?”
“No.”
“Right, err … you’re staying in Aldervale temporarily, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me to mind my own business, but what brings you here?”
Thunk pauses momentarily before answering. “My reason for being here
would be best described as a work project.”
“I see, and what kind of work do you do?”
“I am an expert on human emotions, human thoughts.”
“Human thoughts?” I scoff. “As opposed to what? Dogs? Sheep? Tumble
dryers?”
Under the table, Chloe bangs her leg against mine.
“Excuse my husband, Mungo. You’re an expert on human emotions, like
a psychiatrist?”
“For the benefit of your understanding, yes, like a psychiatrist.”
“Mummy,” Finn interjects. “What’s a phy-ca-tryst.”
“A psychiatrist is like a doctor who helps people with their thoughts.”
 “What kind of thoughts?”
“Oh, um, like when someone is a bit angry or sad.”
“Like Daddy?”
Finn’s question arrives like a knife to my heart. Perhaps not literally, but
enough to temporarily stop it beating.
“I’m not unhappy, mate,” I assure Finn. “I’m … err … I’ve not been
myself of late, but I’m fine, honestly.”
“You are not fine,” Thunk comments while using his knife to force a
single pea onto his fork. “Your thinking is broken.”
“Says who?” I snort.
“I do,” he replies, looking directly at me. His gaze is so intense, it’s as if
he can see straight into my soul. I avert my eyes.
“What do you know?” I mumble under my breath.
Silent seconds pass, but then the tension breaks when Finn requests a
glass of squash. I get up, and Chloe tries to lighten the mood by asking Finn
about his day at school. It’s a question we ask every day, but this evening,
he actually answers it in the same enthusiastic way he used to.
I deliver a glass of orange squash to the table and retake my seat.
Glancing at Thunk, he’s in the process of dissecting an already small potato
into quarters. Freak.
For the remaining ten minutes of mealtime, Chloe continues to ask
questions of Finn, barely letting up and listening to his answers intently. It’s
awful to think it now but before his mutism, I’d sometimes switch off and
only half-listen to what Finn had to say. Judging by my wife’s enthusiastic
interrogation, I wonder if she’s also making up for all the times we never
truly listened to our son.
My plate empty, I excuse myself and take it over to the dishwasher. Finn
and Chloe aren’t far behind, but Thunk is still wrestling with the last pea on
his plate.
Keen to get back to his movie, Finn declines a bowl of ice cream for
pudding and grabs a packet of cookies.
“Are you ready to watch the rest of SpongeBob?” he asks Thunk.
“Yes.”
Chloe collects Thunk’s empty plate and asks if he’d like a dessert or
something to drink. He declines both and follows Finn back to the lounge.
“Well, that was fucking awful,” I groan.
“Was it?”
 “Notwithstanding the fact he’s developed an unhealthy relationship with
our four-year-old son, Thunk is hardly the life and soul of the party, is he?”
“I can’t say I noticed. I was too busy listening to Finn chatter away.”
“Come off it, Chloe. You tried sparking a conversation with him, but he
told us next to nothing.”
“Maybe he’s shy or just socially awkward. Some of the most intelligent
people on the planet have poor social skills.”
“Some of the most intelligent people on the planet are also psychopaths.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Are you willing to use Finn to test that answer?”
“You mean the little boy currently chuckling away at a movie? The little
boy who, five minutes ago, talked and talked about his day at school? Do
you honestly believe a psychopath could induce such a radical and positive
change in our son?”
I look at the floor for an answer that doesn’t come.
“I do agree, though,” Chloe continues. “He’s quite odd.”
“Only quite?”
“Okay, he’s very odd, but I don’t find him threatening. He reminds me of
that guy in that movie.”
Before she hopped into bed with another man, I would have said my wife
was almost without flaw. Almost, but not quite. Her single most annoying
habit came to the fore whenever we watched a movie or TV drama. She’d
suddenly point at the screen and tell me that a certain actor also played
whatshisname in thingamajig. Chloe would then spend a large part of the
evening trying to remember the actor’s name and what she’d seen them in.
The process involved a series of cryptic clues, sometimes stretching over
many days.
“What guy?” I sigh. “And what movie?”
“You know … the little guy.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“The movie had that guy from Wayne’s World.”
“Mike Myers?”
“I think so. He wore a suit.”
“Give me strength,” I groan. “A guy in a suit?”
“Yes! I think it was red or purple … and a ruffled shirt!”
“Are you thinking of Austin Powers?”
 “That’s the one!” Chloe trills, clapping her hands together. “Remember
the little guy in that? What was his character called? Mini-Me?”
“Ohh, yeah. Now you mention it, he does a bit, but I think he looks more
like Gollum.”
“Who?”
“Gollum, from Lord of The Rings.”
“You know I don’t watch movies like that. They’re far too long.”
“I’ll show you.”
I pull out my phone, google a photo of Gollum, and stand shoulder-to-
shoulder with Chloe.
“See.”
“My God, so he does. At least Mungo Thunk is wearing clothes, though.”
“Small mercies, eh?”
My wife laughs enthusiastically, and I can’t stop a grin from breaking
across my face. Crazy as it is, this is as close to normal as we’ve been since
that day. I hate to admit it, but I miss normality with Chloe almost as much
as I miss it with Finn. Even now, normal still feels a long way away, not
least because of our unwelcome guest.
The atmosphere then takes a sudden turn in a different direction, along
with Chloe’s expression.
“What do you think he meant, you know, about your broken thinking?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but I don’t much care.”
“You’re not curious?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“If I wanted a psychiatric evaluation, which I don’t, I’d call my own
doctor. The last person I’d consult would be a random nutjob like Thunk.”
“Despite that random nutjob fixing our son?”
“He hasn’t fixed anyone. The therapist said it was likely that Finn’s
mutism might evolve, and she also said it could end as abruptly as it started.
You don’t seriously believe Thunk has anything to do with it?”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I know is that our son is
more like his old self, and if there’s even a remote chance of getting our old
selves back, I think it’s worth a try, don’t you?”
I stare back at Chloe, incredulous. “What?”
“I’m just saying, where’s the harm in having a brief chat with Mungo?”
“Oh, right,” I scoff. “So, I’m the one with the problem?”
 “That’s not what I’m …”
“You do remember which one of us played footsie with a third party,
right?”
“For the umpteenth time, I can’t change what happened, which is why I
asked you that question earlier.”
“What bloody question?” I snap back.
“About whether you want to fix our marriage.”
“Even if I do, and I still haven’t decided, I sure as hell won’t be seeking
advice from Mungo bloody Thunk, alright.”
“So, you don’t want to fix our marriage?”
“I said I haven’t decided.”
“So, we all continue suffering until you make up your mind. How long
do we have to wait, Jake?”
“As long as it takes.”
“Even though the solution might be sitting in our lounge this very
moment.”
“Did you hear what I just said? I’m not discussing our marriage with
him.”
“Will you talk to a marriage counsellor, then?”
“I told you, there’s no point.”
Chloe flings her arms into the air.
“You’re insufferable,” she groans.
“And you’re a cheat. I know which one I’d rather be.”
And just like that, we’re back to square one — the brief moment of
happiness we shared only a minute ago all but forgotten.
“There was no need for that,” Chloe says flatly.
“Wasn’t there?” I spit back, irritation prickling. “Truth hurts, does it?”
My wife doesn’t respond, at least not verbally. Standing with her hands
on her hips and breathing through her nostrils, she slowly shakes her head.
“I know you’re angry,” she then says. “But that anger is destroying you,
and it’s destroying our family. Please, for the love of God, go and speak to
Mungo — you’ve nothing to lose.”
I wasn’t angry, but my wife doubling down on her suggestion is all it
takes to get me there.
“Sure,” I bark. “I’ll go talk to fucking Mungo!”
Arms tense, teeth gnashing, I stride out of the kitchen and into the
lounge. Stopping directly in front of Thunk and blocking his view of the
TV, he looks up at me, impassive. I growl an instruction.
“Get out of my house. Now!”
To emphasise my demand, I point at the doorway at the exact same
moment Chloe steps through it.
“Jake, calm down,” she says.
Ignoring my wife, I remain focused on Thunk.
“Are you deaf? I said, get out.”
Calm, and measured, he gets to his feet.
“No, Daddy,” Finn then cries. “I don’t want Mungo to go. We haven’t
finished watching SpongeBob.”
I turn to him. “Watch it on your own. Mungo is leaving.”
“I don’t want him to go!”
“Mate, watch the movie. This is grown-up stuff.”
“You’re upsetting him,” Chloe says, unhelpfully.
“Chloe Mason is correct,” Thunk remarks. “Your behaviour is upsetting
Finn Mason, and for that reason alone, I will depart.”
He turns to Finn and nods a goodbye before striding stiffly through the
lounge door to the hallway. I storm towards the front door and open it wide.
“Get out,” I bark. “And don’t think about coming back.”
Thunk steps onto the doormat but then pauses. He turns to face me.
“I am going,” he says. “Everyone goes in the end, don’t they, Jake
Mason?”
“Just fuck off.”
He steps past the threshold, and I slam the door shut with slightly more
force than I intended. Breathing hard, I stare down at the doormat. A
moment to regain some composure is required.
“Well done,” Chloe sneers. “There goes the only person who’s managed
to get through to our son.”
I spin around, ready to launch another defence but only then do I realise
we’re not alone. Our son is standing in the lounge doorway.
“Go and watch the rest of SpongeBob,” I say, trying to hide my still
simmering anger. Finn doesn’t move, but Chloe turns around and squats
down in front of him.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says, softly. “Daddy didn’t mean to slam the
door so hard.”
No reaction.
“Finn? Are you okay?”
 His eyes reach mine, but there’s nothing there. The only outward sign of
emotion comes when a fat tear rolls down his cheek.
“Sorry, buddy,” I say, hurrying over to him. “I just … Mungo really
wasn’t supposed to be here on a school night which is why he had to go.”
No response.
“Talk to me, mate. Say something, please.”
Still dead-eyed, he bites down on his bottom lip and then scurries straight
up the stairs. A second later, his bedroom door clicks shut.
“I guess that answers my question,” Chloe snaps, standing upright.
“Thanks.”
It’s an effort to look my wife in the eye, but I do.
“What?”
“You patently don’t want to fix our marriage, and I’m not willing to stand
by while you self-destruct. I’m taking Finn to stay with Mum and Dad
while we work out what’s for the best, long term.”
“Over my—”
“Dead body?” she hisses. “Don’t temp me, Jake. Don’t tempt me.”
 15
I sip from a mug of coffee while staring out the kitchen window. It’s just
gone ten o’clock, and although there’s still a slight dusting of frost on the
patio, it would have been the perfect morning to visit the play park. That is
if I had a child to take to the play park. Mine is with his mum and
grandparents, six miles away.
I’ve spent most of a sleepless night going over what happened after
dinner yesterday. I’d forgotten it was Friday and, therefore, not a school
night. With no reason to get up early, it didn’t matter if Finn stayed up past
his bedtime, so Chloe had no qualms about packing a bag and driving over
to her parents’ house.
I watched their departure from the lounge window. I could have —
maybe should have — stopped them, but I didn’t. My pride has taken such a
hammering of late, I wasn’t willing to sacrifice what little remained by
chasing after my wife. However, pride wasn’t the primary emotion in play. I
don’t regret ejecting Mungo Thunk from our home but I do regret the way I
handled it, and Finn witnessing my outburst. I behaved badly, and the
accompanying shame hung heavy as I stood and watched Chloe’s car
disappear from view.
This morning, I’m numbly staring out of a different window, but the
same emotions are present. I don’t know what to do, how to subdue the
constant ache in my chest. It’s not as though there’s anyone I can talk to, or
seek advice from.
The one man I should be able to rely on is, sadly, the last man I can trust.
Dad’s life is a litany of irresponsible decisions and poor choices, and I
know what he’d say if I confessed to what happened in my marriage. He’d
call me a sucker for not walking out on Chloe the moment I learned the
truth and a pussy for not beating the shit out of her partner in crime. But,
considering he’s on his third marriage, I’m not inclined to heed his
relationship advice.
Devoid of any other viable candidates, I find myself wondering what Ash
from work would say about my predicament. He sees the world differently
from me, and although I find his relentless optimism an irritation, there’s no
denying he seems happy with his lot in life. Then again, I don’t know much
about Ash’s life beyond TechWorld, so perhaps he has just cause. He’s
probably got two supportive parents, a few close siblings, and if he’s in a
relationship, I’d wager his partner hasn’t cheated on him. No, Ash wouldn’t
understand my problems because his problems, if he has any, are likely
trivial.
This introspection is doing me no good. There’s no one I can talk to, and
even if there was, there are no easy answers, no silver bullet solutions. Even
if Chloe walked back into the house this minute, we’d still be exactly where
we were — a couple clinging to the wreck of a marriage, neither willing to
let go but incapable of instigating repairs.
Needing to break the constant cycle of doom, gloom, and guilt, I wander
through to the lounge and flop down in front of the TV. I then invest five
minutes, mindlessly flicking through the channels in the hope I’ll unearth a
suitable distraction. It comes in the form of a re-run of last night’s
Championship match between Birmingham City and QPR. It’ll do.
I’ve no allegiance to either team, so enthusiasm is in short supply.
Birmingham score after four minutes and then again on twenty-nine. It’s a
one-sided affair, and as the ref blows for half-time, I’ve already got a strong
inkling who won.
I’m about to get up and make another coffee when my phone rings. I
want it to be Chloe, but she said we need a cooling-off period, and sixteen
hours is nowhere near long enough. My wife is likely still simmering.
It’s not Chloe, anyway.
“Hi, Rick.”
“Hey, Jakey Boy,” he says enthusiastically. “What are you up to?”
“Not much. Just watching the Championship match from last night.”
“Don’t waste your time. The Brummies won two-nil, and QPR missed a
penalty.”
“Thanks for the spoiler.”
“I saved you from boredom, and besides, wouldn’t you rather watch your
own team play?”
“We’re away today, aren’t we?”
“Yep, at Eastleigh. Fancy joining this sad old bastard on a trip down
there?”
“I’m not really in the mood if I’m honest.”
“Things still shitty on the marriage front?”
“You could say that. Chloe is staying with her parents for a few days.”
 “And let me guess. You intend to spend the day wallowing in self-pity?”
“That was the intention, yes.”
“Wouldn’t you rather vent at eleven excuses for footballers and another
incompetent referee? It’ll do you good to blow off some steam, don’t you
think?”
I consider Rick’s offer for a moment. He’s right that I could do with
blowing off some steam, and maybe an afternoon watching Aldervale lose
might be slightly more bearable than sitting in front of the TV.
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.”
“Nice one. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Cool. See you soon, mate.”
“Wait … my address might be useful.”
“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “What am I like! Text it to me.”
I end the call and send the requested text. It then occurs to me that
despite my initial misgivings, agreeing to watch Aldervale with Rick might
have other benefits besides getting me out of the house. I don’t know if I’m
ready to tell anyone about Chloe’s infidelity, but having suffered a similar
experience, Rick lends a sympathetic ear and a word or two of guidance. It
says something about my dad that I’d rather seek advice from a casual
friend over him.
I turn the TV off and head to the bathroom for a shower.
Less than an hour after I ended the call with Rick, a car pulls up outside
the house, and a horn beeps twice. I quickly double check I’ve got my
wallet, phone, and keys, and step through the front door. As Rick is a sales
rep, it’s no surprise to see him driving a dull Vauxhall saloon.
I open the passenger’s door and get in.
“I’m glad you didn’t change your mind,” Rick says with a broad smile. “I
spend more than enough time driving on my own.”
“I appreciate you asking me, but I can’t promise sparkling conversation.”
“Anything has to be better than listening to the radio. If I hear another
advert for an insurance or loan company, I’ll take a hammer to the
dashboard.”
“Shouldn’t you be listening to BBC Radio 2 at your age?” I joke. “No
adverts there, mate.”
“Cheeky sod,” he laughs.
We set off on the fifty-minute drive south.
 For the majority of the journey, our conversation revolves around today’s
match and the likely team. We agree on a preferred first eleven and concur
that our dim-witted manager will likely select a different eleven with all but
the goalkeeper out of position. Only when we arrive in the town of
Eastleigh does Rick mention my doleful mood.
“It’ll be alright, you know,” he says, sympathetically. “All marriages go
through rough patches.”
He’s right, but some marriages stumble and die on those rough patches,
including Rick’s. Rather than point that out, I reply with a half-smile.
After parking the car, we walk to the ground and enjoy a pint and a pie in
the clubhouse. The small bar slowly fills with the familiar faces of
Aldervale’s die-hards, all pleased to see one another but lacking in
optimism regarding our team’s chances this afternoon. Some, like Rick and
me, haven’t travelled far, but others have endured long train journeys or
hours behind the wheel. I rarely bothered with away games after I started
dating Chloe, and I can count on one hand how many I’ve attended since
Finn came along. Truth be told, I’d much rather be at home with my son
than here, but as my son isn’t at home, this will have to do.
The dull ache returns to my chest as a bell signifies kick-off is in five
minutes. I’m past caring about the result — I just need the distraction.
Once drinks are finished and coats fastened, we amble through the single
door before a steward corrals us towards the terrace for away fans. Chunky
and sour-faced, he has the look of a guard leading a convict to death row, or
maybe it’s an interpretation based on my own mood.
Settled in our seats, the noise from the home fans subsides until the ref
blows his whistle. We’re underway. Rick turns to me.
“The team isn’t as bad as we feared,” he remarks. “We might be in with a
chance today.”
By half-time, Rick concedes that although the team line-up wasn’t as bad
as we feared, the performance sure as hell was.
“Three fucking nil,” he grumbles as we trudge back to the clubhouse in
search of a hot drink. “What a shambles.”
Quite remarkably, Aldervale United managed to darken my already black
mood.
“Why do we bother?” I sigh as we enter the clubhouse. “We must be sick
in the head, putting up with this shit week after week, season after season.”
 Rick can’t answer my question any more than the other shell-shocked
fans in the room. I don’t directly canvass their opinions as the glum faces
are evidence enough.
The second half is better from an Aldervale perspective, but it’s like
suggesting my wife only sleeping with one man was better than her
enjoying a threesome with two men. Eastleigh spends much of the half in
second gear, and in the eighty-fourth minute we snatch a scruffy
consolation goal.
The match ends 3–1 to our hosts.
“Could have been worse,” Rick remarks as we make our way out of the
ground. “At least we scored.”
“Spare me the glass-half-full philosophy,” I grumble. “We were
dreadful.”
The drive home passes by quickly, probably because we spend much of it
venting about the game. I add fuel to the fire by quoting some of the post-
match comments on the Aldervale fans’ forum. Bar a couple of deluded
fools who think our manager deserves more time, most want him sacked.
“Fancy a pint at The White Horse?” Rick asks as we close in on the final
mile of our wasted journey.
“I’ve nothing to rush home for, but I could do with something stiffer than
a pint.”
“Nice one. I’ll drop the car at my place if that’s okay. It’s only a stone’s
throw from the pub.”
“No problem.”
A few minutes later, Rick turns into a car park fronting a grim-looking
block of flats.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he remarks, as if he can read my thoughts.
“But it’s all I can afford at the moment. The divorce cleaned me out.”
As sorry as I feel for myself, perhaps Rick has the greater justification for
self-pity. My marriage might be on life support, but his is long dead, and it
strikes me that he’s the one paying penance, despite his wife being the
guilty party. That doesn’t seem right or fair.
Rick’s situation plays on my mind all the way to The White Horse. My
emotions are split two ways: pity for how his life, post-divorce, has panned
out, and concern for myself. I’m off to the pub with a vision of my own
future, possibly.
 Drinks acquired, we sit at a table and remove our coats. Having worn out
the conversation on football, I direct the small talk towards Rick’s life.
“I never asked,” I say, casually. “How old is your boy?”
“Five,” he replies.
“Oh, okay. Which school does he attend?”
Rick takes a long sip from his pint and then places it back on the table.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, mate,” he eventually says. “But do you
mind if we talk about something other than my son? I’m having a right
wrangle with visitation rights at the moment, and it’s … well, it’s a raw
subject.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. It’s all my fault, after all.”
“Eh? I thought you said your wife had an affair?”
Rick looks into his glass and sighs.
“She did, and that’s what destroyed the marriage. But, I blame myself for
not being more decisive, for not controlling the situation right from the
outset.”
He did say he wanted to avoid talking about his son, but obviously his
marriage isn’t off-limits.
“How do you mean?”
“The moment I learned about her affair, I should have gathered evidence
and instigated divorce proceedings myself. But, like a mug, I tried to work
through our problems, hoping everything would be okay. I guess I didn’t
want to confront the sense of failure, and I kept telling myself we’d patch
things up.”
“I wouldn’t say you were a mug, mate. You wanted to do the right thing.”
“True, but while I was fighting to save my marriage, my scheming ex
started manipulating the narrative. It was little things at first, like if I ever
raised my voice, she’d make a big deal about it. Then, if we had even the
smallest of arguments, she’d burst into tears and spend ten minutes sobbing
in the back garden. It was completely out of character, but I just thought she
was struggling with the situation, emotionally. That was my first mistake.”
“How so?”
“This went on for a few months, and then I came home from the footy
one Saturday, after a few beers, and … things got a whole lot worse.
Thankfully, my son was at his grandparents, but the minute I walked in the
door, my ex started laying into me, saying all sorts of awful crap about our
marriage, my performance in the bedroom … real nasty stuff.”
“Jesus.”
“After a lot of yelling and screaming, she tried to slap me, but I managed
to grab her wrist. Granted, I probably gripped it harder than I should, but I
was livid with her. I came to my senses eventually and let go, but then she
flew up to the bedroom, slammed the door, and screamed at the top of her
lungs. The next thing I know, the police are hammering at the front door.”
Like the plot of so many TV dramas, I suspect the ending to Rick’s tale
won’t involve an unpredictable twist.
“Long story short,” he continues. “My ex started divorce proceedings on
the grounds of unreasonable behaviour. Even though the police never took
any action, the fact they turned up to a domestic dispute only added to that
bitch’s catalogue of accusations against me. I didn’t know it, but she’d
started a diary, although it was more a work of fiction. She made every
petty argument sound like abuse, usually because I was intoxicated, even
though I’d only had a pint or two. I didn’t stand a chance.”
“Fucking hell,” I gulp. “She stitched you up?”
“Like a kipper, mate, and I didn’t even see it until it was too late. That’s
why it’s my fault and why I’m still paying for my ex to live in a nice house,
drive a nearly new car, and go on two holidays a year. Don’t get me wrong,
I’d never want to see my boy go without, but I’ve got nothing, and my
cheating ex has everything.”
If the bitterness of words could curdle lager, I’d now be sipping cream
cheese.
“I don’t know what to say, Rick.”
“Nothing to say, mate. Anyway, what’s done is done, and eventually, you
learn to live with it. But, if you want my advice, cover your arse because
women can’t be trusted.”
“Chloe might be a lot of things, but she’s not vindictive like that.”
“Neither was my ex … until she was. Don’t be lulled into thinking your
missus won’t stab you in the back if push comes to shove. Look after
number one, and don’t make the same mistakes I did.”
“Thanks. I’ll try not to.”
A couple of Aldervale fans then wander in, and one of them calls over to
Rick. He excuses himself for a minute and hurries over to say a quick hello.
His bitterness lingers, however, adding to my already significant stockpile
of negative emotions.
As I sit and stare at my half-empty pint glass, I let the reality of Rick’s
experience sink in. It’s a reminder that whenever some annoyingly happy
idiot tells you that things can only get better, they inevitably get worse.
In my case, I dread to think how much worse.
 16
Rick eventually returns from the bar with two more drinks.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he says. “But, I took the liberty of ordering us
some fodder.”
“Fodder?”
“Yeah, burger and chips. My treat for you keeping me company this
afternoon.”
I’ve no great appetite, and I’d planned on heading home shortly, but it
would be a shitty thing to do, leaving Rick alone with two plates of food.
“Oh, right. Cheers.”
“No problem, and to be honest, I’m glad of the company. Saturday
evenings are the worst for a divorcee.”
“Why Saturdays in particular?”
“Loneliest night of the week, mate. Everyone else is out having fun, but
I’m usually stuck at home with just a takeaway and a four-pack for
company. I don’t know how it happened, but I’ve become a tragic, middle-
aged saddo.”
“Maybe it’s time to get back in the dating game, and find someone new.”
“It’s tricky. I’m not exactly flush with cash, and you’ve seen where I live.
I’ve tried a few dating websites, but most of the women are so superficial,
and they’re certainly not interested in a divorcee.”
“I’m sure they’re not all like that. One of the guys I used to work with
met his wife on a dating website, and he was a thirty-three-year-old,
overweight tech nerd living with his mum. Hardly a catch.”
“Lucky guy, but internet dating isn’t my thing. You probably don’t
remember, but back in the day, we used to meet people in bars and clubs.
I’m a traditionalist like that — prefer to meet women face to face and get to
know them properly … if you know what I mean?”
I don’t, so all I can offer in reply is a forced chuckle.
“I’m not exactly Brad Pitt,” he continues. “But, believe it or not, I’ve got
the gift of the gab when it comes to chatting up women. That only works in
the real world, obviously.”
Being a salesman, I don’t doubt Rick is good at talking to people, but I
wouldn’t want to be within earshot of his chat-up lines. Just the thought
gives me the ick. Fortunately, the talk of dating moves on when our food
arrives. I pick at my chips and chew unenthusiastically on a tasteless burger
until I can’t stomach another bite.
“That’s me done,” I sigh, nudging my plate away. “Too much beer in my
belly.”
I then stretch while furtively glancing at my watch.
“I should probably make this pint my last. It’s been a long day.”
“Oh. You’re not heading off already, are you?”
“Err, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m knackered.”
“That’s a real pity,” Rick says, dejectedly. “I was hoping you’d be my
wingman.”
“Your what?”
“There’s this bar off the High Street that’s supposed to be a good hunting
ground for single ladies. I thought we could finish up here and check it
out.”
I inwardly cringe at his use of the term single ladies, but that alone isn’t
reason enough to decline his proposal.
“If I were single, I’d be up for it. I’m not, though.”
“I know, and I’m not suggesting you go on the pull. I just fancied seeing
what it’s like, and I don’t like the idea of standing in the corner on my own
like some sad old git.”
“Fair enough, but …”
“Please, mate,” he pleads. “Only for an hour. I really can’t face going
back to that bloody flat.”
Rick is as good as begging, and to ensure his message hits home, he
adopts a suitably doleful expression. My first instinct is to say no, again, but
Rick did save me from an afternoon of torment alone at home.
“One hour, and, to be clear, I’m not your wingman. I am still married …
just.”
“Good man,” Rick beams, leaning across and slapping my arm. “We’ll
finish our beers and head over there.”
Fifteen minutes later, we step through the door of the swanky but
preposterously named Bar KoKo. Although it’s still relatively early in the
evening, it’s busy enough we have to navigate through a crowd to get to the
bar.
“Didn’t this used to be an Argos store?” I remark as we wait to be served.
“It did. Closed down over a year ago.”
 It’s testament to how little I venture into town that I had no idea Argos
had shut up shop. The fact I’m now standing roughly where my eight-year-
old self once stood is cause for reflection.
Unlike most kids, I didn’t particularly enjoy Christmas. My parents were
drunk for most of December, and Mum always skint, so presents were in
short supply or a major source of disappointment. One year, I unwrapped a
new school coat, which wasn’t exactly fun to play with on Christmas
morning. When Granddad found out, he brought me into town on Boxing
Day, to this very building. We left a while later with a huge box containing
a brand-new bike, courtesy of my granddad’s credit card. He wasn’t a
wealthy man by any stretch, and I think it took him a couple of years to pay
it off.
A lifetime later, Chloe and I spent ages browsing the Argos catalogue in
the weeks before we moved into our first flat. Then, armed with a list of
necessities for our new home, we came here. I remember feeling like such a
grown-up and so very excited about our new future.
“What are you having?” Rick shouts over the music.
“A bottle of lager, thanks.”
Beers secured we fight our way through the crowd to the dimly lit rear of
the bar. It’s less crowded but, standing next to a small dancefloor and DJ
booth, it’s no quieter. Half-a-dozen young women are grouped in a circle on
the dancefloor, shuffling their feet and sporadically bursting into fits of
laughter. I quickly conclude this is the last place I want to be.
Rick nudges my arm. “Don’t look, but there’s a couple of women
standing this end of the bar.”
“Right. And?”
“Be subtle about it, but what do you think about the one on the left.”
I slowly turn around as if I’m scanning the room in search of someone.
There are indeed two women standing at the end of the bar, both sipping
from cocktail glasses. I turn back to Rick.
“She’s a reasonably nondescript woman unless I’m missing something?”
“I mean, what do you think of her aesthetics?”
“Err, I guess she’s okay.”
“I might have a crack at her.”
“Mate, she looks younger than me.”
“Yeah, but she’s probably in her late twenties.”
“And you’re what? Early forties?”
 “Does that matter?”
I don’t know, nor do I care. If Rick wants to make a fool of himself,
that’s his lookout.
“Guess not.”
He throws a long stare at the two women, and one of them notices. She
then leans across and says something in her friend’s ear. They then laugh,
and Rick asks me a question about Aldervale’s next match.
“Not sure,” I mumble. “And, you’ll have to excuse me. I need the loo.”
He nods, and I make a beeline for the toilets. As I pass the two women at
the end of the bar, one nudges the other. I look away.
Ordinarily, the last place I’d want to take a crap would be the toilets of a
bar but needs must. Entering the slightly less disgusting of the two available
cubicles, I slide the door bolt into place and drop my trousers. The relief is
blessed, the silence welcome.
I check my watch. I’m fifteen minutes into the promised hour. Maybe I
can sit here for another forty-five and then fuck off home. It’s tempting, but
I reckon Rick will come looking for me sooner rather than later. Still, a few
minutes more won’t hurt.
By the time I wash my hands and recheck the time, I’m relieved to see
I’m closing in on the half-hour mark. One more beer, and I can escape.
I pull a deep breath, quickly wish I hadn’t, and then step back through the
door.
Returning to the exact spot I left Rick, he’s no longer there. This could be
my opportunity to depart, and, for a moment, I consider bolting. Then, I
hear a distinctive voice calling my name. I spin around and mutter a
suitable expletive under my breath.
“Over here, mate,” Rick yells, waving me towards the bar where, in my
absence, he’s sidled up beside the two women.
With obvious reluctance, I trudge across the dancefloor. Rick holds out a
bottle of beer as I approach. “Thought you’d climbed out the toilet
window,” he chuckles. “Let me introduce you to Amber and Ellie.”
The woman on the left, Amber, has long, dark hair, and she’s either using
fake tan or recently returned from a holiday. Her friend, Ellie, is
undoubtedly the prettier of the two. Her short, mid-blonde hair frames a
flawless face, and her eyes are a striking shade of blue. In a different life,
Ellie would be my type, for sure.
 “You’ll never guess what,” Rick blurts in my ear. “Amber’s dad used to
play for Aldervale.”
“Oh, right,” I reply with no more than a vague interest. “What’s his
name?”
“Mike Sadler,” Amber replies. “Probably a bit before your time.”
“Yeah, I can’t say the name rings a bell.”
“He was a striker,” Rick confirms. “Scored nineteen times in the 83–84
season, then left us for Southend United.”
“A bit before your time, too, surely?” I reply.
“True, but my old man used to talk about him when I was a lad. Mike
Sadler was destined for the top, but he tore his cruciate ligament a few
months after joining Southend. Never the same player after that.”
Rick then turns to Amber. “Is your dad still in the game?”
“No, he runs a plumbing business with my brother, Sadler & Son, but he
still talks about his playing career. I don’t think he wanted to leave
Aldervale, his hometown club, but they were desperate for the transfer fee.”
“That’s interesting.”
It’s not, but Rick then poses a series of questions which Amber seems
only too keen to answer. As they chat away, I’m left standing next to Ellie,
who’s yet to say a word.
“You’re not a football fan, then?” I ask, just to be polite.
“Not really. I prefer rugby.”
“I know next to nothing about rugby. I don’t even understand the rules.”
“It’s not the rules I’m interested in,” Ellie replies, her eyes narrowing
slightly. “It’s the players. They’re not pussies like football players, falling
over at the slightest tap and then rolling around like they’ve stepped on a
landmine.”
“I can’t argue. It boils my piss when players act up.”
“And don’t even get me started on their wages. I’m a nurse, and some of
those pansies earn more in a day than I earn in a year.”
The five beers I’ve consumed make their presence felt, and without
requesting it, my mind pictures Ellie in a nurse’s uniform. Worryingly, that
uniform almost certainly isn’t the one she wears to work every day.
“Yeah, I couldn’t do your job in a million years … not for any amount of
money.”
“Most people couldn’t,” she shrugs. “But, at least people banged a
saucepan for a few minutes every Thursday during the pandemic. Can’t say
it helped pay the rent, though.”
I can’t tell if Ellie is bitter or blessed with a particularly dry sense of
humour. Either way, I can’t argue with her point.
“For what it’s worth, I think all nurses are amazing. If I were Health
Secretary, I’d double your wages in a heartbeat.”
“Are you thinking of standing as an MP any time soon?”
“Absolutely fucking not.”
She snorts a laugh and then fixes me with her ridiculously blue eyes.
“Seeing as you’ll never be Health Secretary, there is another way you can
help this poor, underpaid nurse.”
“Um, is there?”
“You could offer to buy her a drink.”
I’ve just walked straight into Ellie’s trap. I wonder how many other men
have fallen into it. A lot, I’d bet.
“Alright, you got me. What are you having?”
“I’ll have a Malibu and Coke, thanks.”
“And your friend?”
Ellie nods over my shoulder, so I turn around. Rick and Amber have
edged a few feet along the bar, and they’re deep in conversation.
“I think your mate has Amber covered,” Ellie says. “So, it’s a cheap
round.”
I manage to snare a barman's attention and order the Malibu and Coke,
plus a single bottle of beer. Glancing over at Rick, he seems oblivious to my
presence. Amber suddenly laughs out loud, and Rick places a hand on her
arm. Quite incredibly, I think they’re flirting with one another.
I share my observation with Ellie as I pass her drink over.
“Amber split with her long-term boyfriend a few months back,” she says.
“This is the first time she’s been out without him in about eight years, and I
think she’s hell-bent on having a good time.”
“How old is she, if that isn’t too rude a question?”
“She’ll be thirty next month.”
That’s still a fair bit younger than Rick, but it’s not my business. Maybe
Amber prefers older guys.
Having split into two pairs, I’m left with a woman I barely know and
have no great interest in getting to know. I could gulp down the beer and
leave, but I don’t think Rick would thank me for adding a third wheel to his
cosy twosome.
 “You look a bit like a footballer,” Ellie then remarks.
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
“Bearing in mind what you said five minutes ago, that’s hardly a
compliment.”
“Who said it was supposed to be a compliment?” she replies with a
simmering smile. “Besides, I didn’t say all footballers were pussies. Some,
like you, are quite rugged looking.”
“Thanks … I think.”
“You’re welcome, and thank you for the drink.”
By the time I finish my beer, my designated hour is almost up. I can
leave with a clear conscience now my obligation is fulfilled. I can, but then
Ellie orders another round of drinks without even asking if I want one. I
don’t, and I definitely don’t want anything to do with the tequila shots that
arrive with my beer.
“Thought we could liven things up a bit,” Ellie purrs before taking the
first of the shots.
“Err, I’m not really …”
“What? You’re not really a man who can handle his liquor?”
“No, I can handle my drink, thanks.”
“Good. Let’s see, shall we?”
She picks up two shot glasses and hands one to me. Before I know it,
we’re standing only inches apart, face-to-face.
“On one, okay?” Ellie says. “Three, two, one. Drink!”
I’m no fan of tequila and pour it straight down my neck, hoping to avoid
contact with my tongue.
“Again.”
“Eh?”
“Come on,” Ellie urges. “Show me what you’re made of.”
Four shots later, Ellie summons the barman again. I have to take a
breather.
“Jesus,” I gasp, my oesophagus on fire. “Slow down.”
“One thing you learn in my job is to enjoy life while you can. We spend
our days with people who don’t have much life left to enjoy.”
It’s a sobering statement. Alas, not literally.
On the fifth shot, Ellie stands even closer to me; so close her breasts
brush against my chest more than once. As I await the next countdown, she
leans in and whispers in my ear.
“It might be the tequila talking, but you’re pretty hot, you know.”
“Hot, as in too warm?”
She playfully slaps my arm. “No, hot, as in I’d love to see you naked at
some point.”
“Oh.”
It’s only the words of a semi-drunk woman I barely know, but Ellie’s
confession goes some way to paving over the cracks of my shattered pride.
As good as it feels, I don’t know how to respond other than to grin at her
like a moron.
With our faces dangerously close, the moment of anticipation is suddenly
interrupted when the DJ puts on a sultry R&B tune.
“My God,” Ellie blurts. “I bloody love this song!”
Before I can object, Ellie grabs my arm and drags me on to the
dancefloor. Then, she wraps her arms around my neck and presses her body
tight to mine. Unsure what else to do, I place my hands on her waist as she
begins moving her hips in time to the music. It is, in some respects, similar
to the grinding technique my wife deploys in the bedroom. However, I am
not in our bedroom, and this woman is not my wife. My penis, regrettably,
doesn’t seem to care.
What I’m doing is wrong, but there are two reasons why I can’t stop.
Firstly, it feels so damn good, and secondly, I’m almost too pissed to think
rationally. A third reason then drifts into focus, and, in my alcohol-fogged
mind, it kind of makes sense. Maybe, just maybe, cheating on Chloe might
help me get past her infidelity, like a form of Karma. She has upset the
balance of our marriage, and this is a chance to level the scales.
Unable or possibly unwilling to think of any reason not to, I slowly ease
my hands towards Ellie’s pert backside and pull her tighter to me. She
responds by dropping her hands and sliding them into the back pockets of
my jeans.
As the bass thumps and the lights strobe, and the intoxicating scent of
Ellie’s perfume fills my nostrils, it feels entirely appropriate to lean in and
kiss her neck. Just as my lips are about to touch skin, I glance back towards
the bar to see if Rick is still boring Amber with his patter.
I freeze, and my heart temporarily stops beating.
Rick and Amber are still at the bar, but standing between them and the
dancefloor is the last person I expected, or wanted, to see — Mungo bloody
Thunk.
He looks straight at me and slowly shakes his head.
 17
I’m never drinking again.
If my pounding headache and low-key nausea aren’t reason enough,
events at Bar KoKo last night should be. Barely seconds after Mungo
Thunk finished shaking his head, he spun around and marched back through
the crowd towards the exit. His sudden appearance totally destroyed the
moment with Ellie and after I blurted an apology, I set off in pursuit of my
stalker.
I caught a glimpse of him as I fought my way through the packed space,
and then some gym twat in a too-tight t-shirt blocked my path. I barged past
him and continued zig-zagging through the crowd. I was no more than
fifteen feet from the exit when I spotted Thunk’s bald dome again, just as he
stepped through the door.
I couldn’t have been more than four or five seconds behind him but as I
staggered out on to the street and looked both ways, he was nowhere to be
seen. I turned left and jogged for a few hundred yards, checking doorways
and parked cars, but to no avail. I then spun around and ran back the other
way but besides a couple staring at the menu in a restaurant window, the
street was deserted.
The adrenalin and the cold night air did, however, help bring some sanity
back to my thinking. It would have been so easy to return to the bar and
pick up where I left off with Ellie, but thank God I decided not to. I feel
dreadful enough this morning without the added weight of a one-night stand
on my conscience.
I decided to walk home, and by the time I slid the key in the front door,
my perspective had shifted. It dawned on me that if it hadn’t been for
Thunk’s sudden appearance, I’d almost certainly have ended the evening in
a stranger’s bed. I realised what a terrible mistake that would have been, not
least for Ellie. For all the good it might have done me — and now, I’m not
convinced it would — how would she have felt? You’ve got to be a pretty
empathetic human to work as a nurse and I think Ellie would have been
mortified to discover she slept with another woman’s husband.
Unbelievably, Thunk did me a favour. Well, me, Chloe, and Ellie.
 Now, in the cold light of a Sunday morning, I’m willing to concede I owe
Mungo Thunk but the questions I asked all the way home remain
unanswered. How did he know where to find me? Why was he there?
Where did he go? And, most perplexing of all: who the hell is Mungo
Thunk?
Inevitably, my thoughts lead back to Friday evening, and the moment
Chloe left with Finn after I turfed Thunk out of the house. I haven’t seen my
son in almost forty hours; our longest period of separation in his short life.
Desperate for a connection, no matter how tenuous, I grab my phone and
compose a quick text to Chloe, asking how Finn is doing. Her reply is as
curt as it is quick: Better than he was at home.
My wife’s message provokes a sharp pang of guilt, adding to an already
long, soul-sapping list of ills.
“Kill me now,” I mumble.
I’m aware that the hangover isn’t helping my mental state, but it’s hard to
see how things could get any worse. Then again, I spent much of yesterday
with the living embodiment of worse. I quickly conclude that thinking
about Rick’s plight will not help mine.
I return my focus to the phone screen and spend far too long composing
and then deleting a reply to Chloe’s message. Perhaps it’s latent guilt after
last night’s near miss, but I want to speak to my wife. I call her.
“Hey.”
“What do you want, Jake?”
“Nothing really. I just wanted to … I don’t know.”
“I’m in the middle of helping Mum prepare lunch.”
“Right. What are you having?”
“Do you really care?”
“Suppose not.”
“Then what’s the point of this conversation?”
“I, um, wanted to talk to you, check in on Finn.”
“I told you; Finn is fine. As for talking to me, I think you said all that
needed to be said on Friday evening, didn’t you?”
“I was angry. I overreacted.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So you should be,” Chloe snaps. “For the first time in weeks, our son
talked to us, acted like the little boy we used to share our home with, and
now he’s back at square one because you couldn’t keep your temper in
check.”
“You don’t think I had reason to react the way I did?”
“No. You’re so bitter, so angry these days that you can’t see the good in
anything or anyone. Rather than treating our guest with kindness and
gratitude, you behaved like a petulant child.”
“I don’t trust him, alright.”
“You don’t trust anyone.”
“I wonder why that is,” I retort, coldly.
“And here we go again. I’m done with it, Jake.”
“No, wait.”
“Why?”
I need her to understand why I reacted the way I did.
“As I said, we don’t know anything about this Thunk character.”
“The fact he miraculously returned our son to us isn’t enough?”
“No, I mean … yes, but … he’s not who you think he is.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I saw him last night. I think he’s stalking me.”
“Good grief. I hope you apologised to him.”
“I didn’t get the chance. I saw him in that new bar in town, and—”
“What?” Chloe growls. “You were at a bar last night?”
If there’s a Nobel Prize for shooting yourself in the foot, I’ve just secured
a nomination.
“Only for a while. I was back home by nine.”
“Your marriage is in crisis, and you go out on the town. You’re
unbelievable.”
“I didn’t go out on the town. I went to the football and then had a few
beers at The White Horse afterwards. The only reason I ended up in that bar
is because Rick had no one else to go with, and I felt sorry for him.”
“You went to a bar with Rick?”
“Yes, for an hour or two. No more.”
My statement is met with complete silence. It continues for so long, I
have to check Chloe is still on the line.
“Hello?”
“I’m here.”
“Why the silent treatment?”
“Rick is divorced, isn’t he?”
 “Err, yeah.”
“And it never crossed your mind that going to a bar with a single bloke
might not look good.”
“No, because I didn’t even want to be there. I was only doing him a
favour.”
“Well, don’t be doing him a favour again. Whatever problems we have,
they won’t be solved by you going out on the town with Rick Ten-Hands.”
“Sorry? Rick what?”
“That’s his nickname at work. He’s got a reputation for being a bit too
handsy with some of the women in the office.”
“He’s barely in the office. He told me.”
“Just … I don’t like the idea of you spending time with men like Rick,
okay?”
“Whatever. It was a one-off.”
“Good. Now, can we get back to more important matters, like your
problem with Mungo.”
“As I was saying, he was in the bar last night.”
“So?”
“He’s stalking me, Chloe.”
“Did you actually ask him why he was there?”
“No, as I said …”
“Had it crossed your mind that maybe he was there for another reason?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. What I do know is that he fixed our son, and he offered to
help you.”
“Like I need his help.”
“You need someone’s help, Jake. Every time we talk, it descends into an
argument, and you refuse to see a counsellor. We can’t go on like this.”
“I said, I just need time.”
“Fine, but we’re not coming home until you’re willing to put what
happened behind you and start looking forward.”
“What do you mean, you’re not coming home?”
“Exactly that. We’re stuck in a toxic loop, and I can’t think of any other
way of breaking it.”
“But, who’s going to take Finn to and from school?”
“Mum has agreed to do it.”
 “So, that’s it? I’m now surplus to requirements? For no fault of my own,
I’m cast aside while you get on with your life.”
“I’m not casting you aside. I love you, but one of us has to do something
before we end up hating one another.”
“And what, pray tell, am I supposed to do while you live it up with your
parents?”
“To quote the man you ejected from our home on Friday: fix your
thinking.”
Chloe then makes an excuse about her mum wanting help and ends the
call. I slump back in the chair and close my eyes.
A conclusion soon forms. Actually, it doesn’t so much form, but looms
over me like an angry thunderhead cloud: Chloe is close to giving up.
I let that thought percolate for a moment, and consider how I feel about
it.
It doesn’t take long to conclude I don’t feel good about it at all. I admit
that I’ve spent weeks trying to punish my wife but I presumed the bitterness
would eventually ebb away. I hadn’t considered that maybe it would be
Chloe who ebbed away and I’d be the one nudging her out the door.
Is this what I wanted? I might not have instigated the blow to our
marriage but after Chloe undermined the foundations, I’ve been busy with
the wrecking ball. In my defence, it’s always easier to destroy than to build.
Of all the ways I could conceivably feel, trapped feels most appropriate.
Deep down, I don’t want my marriage to end, my family destroyed, but I
cannot get past what Chloe did. Whichever way I face, the challenge seems
insurmountable.
“Fuck sake,” I snap, tossing my phone on the floor.
I catch a whiff of my own armpit and wince. I haven’t showered in over
twenty-four hours, and I could do with the distraction before my head
explodes.
Then, my phone beeps. Could it be an apology text from Chloe? I snatch
it up and blink at the screen. The text message isn’t from my wife, but Rick:
What happened to you last night?
I reply with a lie: I wasn’t feeling too well. Sorry I left without saying
goodbye. How’d your evening pan out?
Rick answers almost immediately: It was fun but I don’t think Amber is
my type. Back to the drawing board.
 I’ve no real interest in continuing the conversation so I compose a text
that should end it: Sorry to hear that but plenty more fish and all that. Got
to rush as I’m due somewhere ten minutes ago. Catch up soon.
I switch my phone to silent, traipse upstairs to the bathroom, and get
undressed. I’m about to turn the shower on when I catch sight of my own
reflection in the large mirror behind the sink. I look fucking terrible:
bloodshot eyes, pasty skin, two days of stubble, and clumps of hair jutting
out at all angles. Leaning over the sink, I take a closer look at my skin and
the lines around my eyes. This year alone, I think I’ve aged ten.
“No wonder she cheated on you,” I scoff at the mess in the mirror.
“Hardly a catch, are you?”
He replies with a sigh, and I notice his once flat stomach now has a slight
bulge. No surprise, considering how much beer he’s consumed of late.
“Christ,” he then groans. “You’re morphing into Rick.”
I turn my back on the loser in the mirror and stand in the shower until the
water runs cold.
The shower helps with my body odour, but it does little to ease my
tortured mind. Head splitting, I get dressed and make for the kitchen in
search of painkillers. I don’t have much of an appetite but I need to eat
something so slide a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.
Two paracetamol despatched, and a pint of tap water gulped, I lean up
against the side and wait for the toast to pop. When Finn was a baby, maybe
nine or ten months old, we used to listen to a song about a toaster — I’ve no
idea where it came from or when we first heard it, but Finn loved it,
particularly when I imitated the popping sound of a toaster. Somewhere on
Facebook, there’s a video of me, holding Finn in one arm and popping my
cheek with a finger. He’d laugh hysterically every time I did it, and Chloe
thought it was the cutest thing ever. So too did the hundreds of random
people who posted comments underneath the video.
It feels like a lifetime ago, and no one is laughing now.
The toaster pops, breaking the silence. I open the fridge and snatch the
sunflower spread from the shelf but when I flip the lid off, it’s almost
empty. It takes an age to scrape enough spread to cover two slices of toast
and when there’s nothing left to scrape, I step over to the bin and press the
pedal to lift the lid.
Still sitting near the top but partially covered by a milk carton, is a white
piece of card.
 I drop the empty tub into the bin and then my brain sends a command to
my foot: release the pedal. For some inexplicable reason, the wrong limb
receives the wrong command. My foot remains where it is as my arm
reaches into the bin. Before I question why, I’m holding the white piece of
card between my thumb and forefinger.
“Fix my thinking, eh?” I murmur. “We’ll see about that.”
 18
I wake up, glance at my watch, and panic.
“Shit!”
I’m still scrambling around in the dark when, once again, it dawns on me
that I’m not late for the school run because there is no school run today, or
for the foreseeable future.
The panic is replaced by a less frantic, but no less welcome emotion —
gloom. I’ve a feeling that today will be the most Monday’ish of Monday
mornings, and I’m facing it with record levels of pessimism.
If there’s anything to be grateful for, and it’s the smallest of small
mercies, at least I don’t have a hangover this morning, or the associated
sense of regret.
That’s not to say I don’t have any regrets this morning — quite the
opposite.
I grab a shower and plod down to the kitchen. Beyond the window, even
the sky has decided to dress in an ominous shade of grey. I’m about to slide
some bread in the toaster when I remember I used the last of the sunflower
spread yesterday. I’d settle for a bowl of cereal but there’s not enough milk.
Chloe always took care of the groceries but as she isn’t here, I guess I’ve no
choice but to fend for myself.
The fending begins with a strong coffee, although not as strong as I’d like
because there’s only a smattering of granules at the bottom of the jar.
I am shit at being single, and that’s one reason why I fished a business
card out of the bin yesterday lunchtime. The main reason, however, was to
seek answers. Whatever chicanery Mungo Thunk used to alter Finn’s
behaviour, I want to know how he did it. That’s why I called him, and why
he’s coming over at four o’clock this afternoon. I can’t say I’m looking
forward to it but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I’m
desperate. Even without a hangover, the reflection in the bathroom mirror
this morning was not that of a man in a good place.
In no great hurry, I sit at the kitchen table and sip coffee. My phone
vibrates and I fish it out, hoping it might be Chloe. It’s not. It’s possibly the
last person I want to speak to.
“Hey, Dad.”
 “Alright, Boy. You in a better mood this morning?”
“What do you mean, better mood?”
“When you dropped us off the other night, you had a face like a slapped
arse.”
“Do you blame me? That wife of yours had no right, talking to me like
that.”
“Christ, you’re not still sulking about what Mel said, are you?”
“Funnily enough, Dad, my life doesn’t revolve around your wife’s mood
swings, so no, I’m not.”
“Good. Anyway, sorry for calling so early but I wanted to pick your
brains.”
“I’ve got to leave for work shortly. What is it?”
“I got myself one of those Apple laptops, but I’m buggered if I can get
the bloody thing to work. I was hoping you’d have a look at it for me.”
“Why me?”
“You’re the tech expert, ain’t you? Wasn’t that what you did before you
got the sack?”
“Firstly, I didn’t get the sack — I was made redundant. Secondly, I
worked on server infrastructure. I know next to nothing about Apple
laptops.”
“You know more than your old man.”
“Take it into an Apple store. They’ll help you out.”
“Yeah, thing is, I didn’t buy it from an Apple store, or any store for that
matter. A mate sold it to me.”
“It’s nicked?”
“It’s second hand.”
“Does the previous owner know that?”
“Are you gonna come and have a look at it for me, or not?”
“I’ve got a lot on for the next few days, so it’ll have to wait.”
“Until when?”
“Until I’ve got time. I’ll message you, okay?”
“Guess I ain’t got no choice,” he sighs. “Sorry if your old dad is an
inconvenience.”
My teeth grind and my fingers tighten around the phone with enough
force to crush a tin can. It’s just enough to stop me saying what I really
want to say.
“Goodbye, Dad.”
 The minute I hang up, I feel bad. Whenever Dad calls, almost always
asking for something, Chloe is usually around to tell me I shouldn’t feel any
sense of obligation. As she’s not here, the guilt can linger, unchecked. I puff
a sigh and message Dad, telling him I’ll try to pop over in the next day or
two.
After finishing my coffee, I set off for work. The traffic is slow and the
promised rain begins to pelt down. Then, the low-fuel warning light
illuminates.
“Brilliant,” I groan.
It’s been a long time since I had any serious money worries but with my
redundancy payment almost gone and an uncertain future ahead, that might
be about to change.
For the umpteenth time, the traffic grinds to a halt. I glance at the
dashboard clock and rue my decision not to leave a bit earlier. I’m due at
work in five minutes and I’m still a mile away from the Inchgate Retail
Park.
Fifteen minutes later, I barrel through the back door of TechWorld,
hoping I might be able to sneak in and get to my post without anyone
realising I’m late. I dash up the stairs to the staffroom and hang up my coat.
As I’m about to dart back through the doorway, a figure steps into my path.
“Oh, err … morning, Barry.”
Only someone with my levels of bad luck would bump into their boss on
the very day they’re ten minutes late. Barry usually spends most of his
morning holed up in his office.
“Good morning, Jake,” he beams. “And, what a splendid morning it is.”
He steps past me and into the staffroom, whistling to himself. I’ve no
idea why he’s so uncharacteristically cheerful this morning but as he hasn’t
mentioned my tardy timekeeping, I’m not about to push my luck. I hurry
down the stairs and out to the shop floor.
On the way to the customer service counter, I pass Suzy, filling a shelf
with toner cartridges.
“Morning, Jake,” she chirps in a strange sing-song kind of way.
“Err, morning.”
Who knew that re-stocking toner cartridges was such a source of glee? I
certainly didn’t.
I continue on to my post where Ash is handing a carrier bag to a
customer.
 “Have a lovely day, Sir,” he says, flashing his trademark smile.
The customer departs and I take up position next to Ash.
“Jake! A very good morning to you,” he says enthusiastically,
overlooking the fact it’s not a very good morning at all, and I’m late.
“Yeah, morning,” I huff. “Did Stuart bring in a tray of his homemade
hash cakes?”
“Stuart isn’t in today, and I’m pretty sure Barry wouldn’t approve of
drugs on the premises.”
“Then, why is everyone I’ve spoken to this morning so insufferably
happy?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
Ash shuffles his feet in what might be a little dance. Hard to say.
“You’ll never believe our luck, Jake,” he says, gleefully. “Our little
syndicate won a prize in Friday evening’s EuroMillions draw. Our very first
draw, would you believe.”
On cue, my mind recalls the conversation I had with Ash last week, in
this exact spot. He invited me to join the syndicate and I told him in no
uncertain terms that the lottery was a mug’s game.
“Congratulations,” I reply through gritted teeth. “How much did you
win?”
“Give or take a few pounds, a shade over four thousand.”
I do a quick calculation in my head and the result eases my annoyance a
touch.
“So, split eight ways, you each get five hundred quid. Not exactly a life-
changing sum, is it?”
“No, we won four thousand each. The total prize was £32,000.”
Now I’m annoyed. Really annoyed.
“Barry is thinking about a Mediterranean cruise,” Ash continues. “And
Suzy has her eye on a new car.”
“Good for them.”
“You’ll never guess what I intend to spend my share on.”
He looks up at me, expectantly, like Finn used to during potty training. I
was never great at feigning enthusiasm whenever my son managed to land a
shit in a plastic bowl, and I’m no more enthusiastic now.
“I don’t know, Ash. A bespoke gimp mask and ball gag?”
 He reacts with a proper belly laugh. “You’re so funny, Jake. You should
be a stand-up comedian.”
If it were anyone else, I’d assume they were being sarcastic, but Ash
doesn’t have a sarcastic bone in his body. He finally stops chuckling.
“No, what I’m planning to do with my share is—”
I’m well overdue some luck of my own, and it comes in the form of an
approaching customer. I’d rather listen to that customer’s complaint than
Ash wanging on about how he intends to spend his windfall.
I wouldn’t say my luck continues because there’s nothing lucky about
serving disgruntled members of the public, but the morning is unusually
busy for a Monday. It’s so busy, in fact, Ash doesn’t have time to tell me
how every member of the TechWorld syndicate intends to spend their
winnings.
Lunchtime comes and I head up to the staffroom with a sandwich in
hand. The silence is welcome although the little voice in my head squawks
a warning every few minutes. It keeps telling me I’m making a mistake
meeting with Mungo Thunk later. Twice, I get my phone out, intent on
cancelling. Deep down, I know I’m wasting my time but the reason I don’t
cancel is simple — I want my son back home.
I don’t know how many times I can return to an empty house, knowing
my little boy is forging new routines across town. I’m his dad and I
promised myself I’d do a better job than mine ever did, and for that reason
alone, I have to grill Thunk. I owe it to Finn.
At ten to three, a delivery arrives. Keen to avoid being press-ganged into
helping process it, I hide in the toilet for the final minutes of my shift.
Seeing as they’re all four grand better off than me, I reckon it’s only fair. I
depart at three on the dot.
On the drive home, the little voice in my head tries again, squawking
louder and louder. The fact I’m heading home, rather than to Belle Vue
Infant School, is all the reason I need to ignore it. I stop off at a
convenience store and grab some essentials, passing a display of sweets on
my way to the self-service checkout. Finn loves a Kinder Surprise and I’m
about to grab one as a treat when the futility hits me. I hesitate for a
moment and then trudge on with my basket.
I arrive home, unpack the shopping, and head upstairs to change. By the
time I return to the kitchen and make myself a much-needed coffee, it’s
almost four.
 With mug in hand, I sit at the table and pull out my phone. By pure
chance, I unlock the screen just as the time display updates, changing from
15.59 to 16.00.
The doorbell rings.
 19
On my way to the front door, I strike a deal with the voice in my head.
I’ll remain calm throughout my conversation with Mungo Thunk but if he
doesn’t cooperate, he’ll find himself being forcibly ejected from Chez
Mason for the second time in four days.
I open the door.
Wearing the same black suit and sweater he’s worn on the two prior
occasions we met, Thunk is nothing if not consistent. He’s also sporting the
same detached expression, like he’s slightly bored or slightly irritated, or
both, possibly.
“Hello, Jake Mason,” he says.
“Hello, Mungo Thunk.”
“It is four o’clock. I am here.”
“Yes, I can see that. Come in.”
I stand back, allowing him to enter.
At first, I considered my guest simply weird, but being in such close
proximity, not to mention being alone, and sober, I have to admit there’s
something a little creepy about him. It’s not the Jimmy Saville kind of
creepy — more the walking through a graveyard at dusk kind of creepy.
I’ve no rational reason to be spooked but, as Thunk passes by, a cold
shudder runs down my spine.
“Go through to the kitchen, please.”
He continues on, and I follow — a safe distance behind. Once we’re in
the kitchen, I invite him to take a seat at the table. He sits down in the same
mechanical fashion as Friday.
“Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee?”
“I do not drink caffeinated beverages.”
“Right. Water?”
“Is it bottled or from a tap?”
“Tap. Or there’s milk if you prefer?”
“Is the milk from a bovine?”
“Err, I presume so.”
“I will go without a beverage.”
“Fair enough.”
 I sit down opposite and take a gulp of coffee. It’s followed by a deep
breath as I try to compose myself. All I need to do is keep my cool and ask
my questions.
“You summoned me,” Thunk then says.
“Summoned is a strong word. I only want a chat.”
“About?”
“Firstly, I need to apologise for Friday. I shouldn’t have thrown you out
like that.”
“I concur, but I accept your apology.”
“Good, and … okay, I’m going to cut to the chase. Who are you?”
“I am Mungo Thunk.”
“Yes, I know your name. What I don’t know is … actually, I don’t know
anything about you.”
“That is not accurate. Chloe Mason asked several questions during our
meal on Friday. I answered those questions, did I not?”
“Kind of, in the vaguest possible way.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“For starters, what were you doing in that bar on Saturday evening?”
“Standing. Observing. Nothing more.”
“Observing me?”
“You, and others.”
“For what purpose?”
“Research.”
“Research? What are you researching, exactly?”
He blinks in slow motion, like a bored cat.
“Time is short, Jake Mason, and your questions are irrelevant. I would
recommend you ask the question you really want an answer to.”
“Alright, I will. What did you do to Finn?”
“I did nothing. It is you who has undermined Finn Mason’s emotional
stability.”
“Well, yeah … I’ll hold my hands up to playing a part, but why is it he
acts perfectly normal when you’re around but the moment you’re gone, he’s
back to his silent self?”
“Your question is incorrectly formatted. You should ask why he is silent
in your company, rather than his usual self in mine.”
“Eh? Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No.”
 “Okay — why is he silent around me and Chloe but not around you?”
“Is he talkative in the presence of others?”
“The kids at school, and one boy in particular.”
“Then, there is your answer. You are the problem.”
It’s one thing to suspect you’re partly culpable for your child’s
unhappiness, but it’s quite another to hear such a matter-of-fact accusation.
Indignation simmers.
“You’re qualified to make that statement, are you?”
“Yes.”
“And I just have to take your word for it?”
“No. You can choose to believe what I say, or not. You have free will.”
“But … come on, meet me halfway here. All I want is to see my son
happy, and for reasons I genuinely don’t understand, you’re able to connect
with him. At least tell me why I should trust you.”
“I have no interest in gaining your trust. If you require my assistance, I
only require your cooperation.”
“That’s all well and good, but how can I accept your assistance if I don’t
trust you?”
“You have placed your trust in others throughout your life, have you
not?”
“I guess so.”
“And, has that trust ever been broken? Think carefully before you
answer.”
I don’t have to think too carefully, or for too long.
“I don’t understand the relevance, but yes, my trust has been broken …
several times, as it goes.”
“Then why request what can so easily be removed? Trust is a vague
construct, much like respect, and yet, humans believe their relationships
cannot function without either. It is an inaccurate belief.”
“You’re telling me that you’d marry someone you don’t respect or trust?”
“Again, your thinking is wrong. What is trust? It is not an absolute like
fear or hatred. It is a shifting perspective with no quantifiable measure. One
human might claim they trust another, but that trust is never absolute.
Never.”
“Wow, that’s a depressing assessment.”
“It is true, but rarely do humans admit it. You seek trust, but the only
purpose it serves is to validate your own judgement. If I break your trust,
you can blame me — there is no culpability on your part.”
“Nice theory, but you’re wrong.”
“You have evidence-based facts to support your claim? I suspect you do
not.”
“My wife, she … she broke my trust, and that had nothing to do with my
judgement.”
“That remains to be seen, Jake Mason.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, perhaps your judgement is not as infallible as you think it is.
That is the crux of why I am here.”
“Wait. I thought you were here to help me understand Finn’s issues.”
“Your son’s issues are merely a symptom of the wider problem. And, as I
have already stated, that is you or, to be more precise, the way you think.”
It’s the third time Thunk has suggested I’ve an issue with my thinking.
The first time I thought he was plain crazy. The second I thought he was
taking the piss. Now, having heard it for a third time, I want details.
“What’s wrong with the way I think?”
“I do not know.”
“Great,” I groan, rolling my eyes. “That’s useful.”
Thunk then points at the oven behind me.
“If you switch that device on and it fails to operate, you would consult an
expert, correct?”
“Yeah, I’d call out an oven technician, obviously.”
“And would that technician be able to determine the exact nature of the
fault merely by looking at the device?”
“Not likely, no.”
“And yet, you expect me to diagnose your defective thinking without any
form of investigation?”
“Alright, point received and understood — you think my head is a mess
but you don’t know how to unravel that mess.”
“A crude analogy but for the purposes of this conversation, accurate.”
“And you reckon you can fix my thinking?”
“Yes.”
“Which, in turn, will help Finn overcome his mutism?”
“Correct.”
I take a second to organise my thoughts into some sort of order — no
easy task.
 “Are we talking about some kind of therapy?”
“A kind of therapy, yes.”
“And how much does this therapy cost?”
“In a monetary sense, nothing.”
“You don’t charge a fee?”
“No.”
“How do you earn a living, then?”
“Again, I must remind you to ask only relevant questions. My financial
resources are an irrelevance.”
“I think they’re relevant. What other motive would you have to help a
random stranger?”
The edges of Thunk’s lips curl upwards a fraction. It could be the
slightest of smiles but it could also be a sneer.
“The question of motive is relevant,” he replies. “And, I will answer it.”
“Oh … right, good.”
He sits forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“I possess certain abilities, the nature of which are not your concern, but
in recent years I have had cause to reassess how I might use those abilities
for good. The last male I assisted now enjoys a contented and fulfilling life,
and I found the process of his development interesting, and ultimately
satisfying.”
“You’ve helped someone in a similar situation to me?”
“Similar, but not the same.”
“Recently?”
“By the standards of my time, yes.”
“So, can I talk to this other guy, get his feedback?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it would unsettle his new life, putting at risk all we achieved
together.”
His answer is frustrating, but I suppose it’s not without reason. Whatever
Thunk’s abilities are, and however he helped this other guy, there’s
probably a confidentiality issue to consider. It might be understandable, but
it does little to ease my scepticism. However, I think I’d sacrifice my left
bollock for a contented and fulfilling life. That carrot is the only reason I’m
willing to even consider hearing Thunk out, although there are still
questions to be answered.
 “Why me?”
“I do not understand your question.”
“You don’t know anything about me, and I sure as hell don’t know
anything about you. I never asked for help and yet, here you are, banging on
about fixing my thinking. Why?”
“Why not?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Let me rephrase the question. Why would someone who is supposedly
an expert in their field, offer to help a random stranger?”
“Why would someone in your situation decline an offer of help?”
“Eh?”
“Your questions say a lot about you, Jake Mason. They tell me that you
are afraid.”
“Bullshit,” I snort. “Why would I be afraid of you?”
“You misunderstand. You are not afraid of me, but you are afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I will only be able to determine that once therapy commences.”
Thunk has an uncanny knack of answering a question without ever quite
answering the question. It’s frustrating, confounding, and migraine-
inducing. And yet, I’m still sitting at the table, hearing him out. It does beg
the question: which one of us is really unhinged?
“Let’s say I decide to go ahead with your therapy — and I’m not saying I
will — when would you start?”
“I have already started, but your personal involvement must commence
as soon as possible.”
“Like, when?”
“As soon as Chloe and Finn Mason return to the house.”
“Yeah, that’s complicated.”
“Complicated, how?”
“They’re staying with Chloe’s parents at the moment. I don’t know when
they’ll be coming home.”
“Then, you must contact Chloe Mason immediately, and insist she
returns home.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple.”
“How?”
 “Tell her the truth. You want her to return home in order to begin the
process of fixing your thinking.”
“I doubt that’ll work but what difference does it make if Chloe and Finn
are here or not?”
“A fundamental tenet of the therapy is that I must observe your everyday
life. That includes the interactions with your wife and son.”
“You’re saying you can’t help me unless Chloe and Finn come back?”
“I am saying you need them back to begin the process. As with my
analogy regarding the electric oven, I cannot fix what I cannot understand.”
“But—”
Thunk abruptly pushes his chair back and stands up straight.
“I will return at 7.00 pm tomorrow, and I expect to see Chloe and Finn
Mason here. Then, we will begin your therapy.”
“Hold on a minute,” I snap back. “I never agreed to this. You can’t tell
me what to do.”
Thunk takes a dozen measured steps towards the door and then turns
around.
“I cannot tell you what to do but I will tell you what you need to do.”
I stare back at him, open mouthed.
“Goodbye, Jake Mason. I will see you tomorrow.”
He nods once, turns around, and strides off into the hallway. A moment
later, the front door latch clicks shut.
 20
The phone call lasted twenty minutes and I asked Chloe three times
before she finally relented. Only towards the end of our conversation did
she explain her reluctance. She was more than willing to return home with
Finn, but only if I wanted her back as much as my son. As it was, I
explained that if there was any hope of Thunk’s supposed therapy working,
it required all three members of the Mason clan under one roof.
I think she expected a heartfelt plea, an admission that I couldn’t live
without her. What she got was semi-reluctant, slightly belligerent whining,
and I only did that because I’m desperate to see Finn. Nevertheless, she
agreed to come back home but only on the proviso I do as Thunk asks. If I
lose my temper again or we end up cycling back through the same
arguments, Chloe made it clear she’d leave again, and for good.
There was another reason I decided to take Thunk’s advice although it
had nothing to do with seeing Finn. I’m still conscious of Rick’s experience
when his marriage fell apart, and if Chloe is here, at least I can keep an eye
on her. As long as she’s at her parents’ house, she could be plotting against
me and I won’t know the outcome of that plot until it’s too late. I wouldn’t
call Chloe my enemy, and she’s not been much of a friend lately, but I’d
rather keep her close.
Almost twenty-four hours after Mungo Thunk levied his demand, I’m
sitting at the kitchen table, picking at a microwave meal. As a thank you for
their hospitality, Chloe insisted on taking her parents for an early dinner
which is why I’m dining alone, again. I’m expecting Chloe and Finn to
arrive before Thunk pitches up at seven.
I give up on eating and throw the remains in the bin. My stomach is
fizzing with nervous excitement at the prospect of seeing Finn but it’s
tempered by the fact I don’t know how this evening will pan out. I still can’t
quite believe I’ve agreed to Thunk’s therapy, let alone set the wheels in
motion. Some might suggest it’s the last roll of the dice; the final act of a
desperate man. Others might argue I’m a bloody idiot. I guess I’ll know
soon enough which label is most appropriate.
To kill time, I pace up and down the kitchen. Twice, I stop by the fridge,
open it, and stare longingly at the four-pack of beers on the shelf. Both
times, I tell myself that I need a clear head, and slam the fridge door shut.
I’m close to opening the fridge for a third time when I hear the front door
open. I hurry through to the hallway.
Finn steps through the door first, closely followed by Chloe, carrying a
holdall. I wouldn’t swear on it, but I’m sure she took a lot more with her
than she’s brought back. Telling.
“Hey, little man,” I coo, stepping towards Finn and squatting down.
“How about a big hug for Daddy, eh? I’ve missed you.”
He doesn’t say anything but Finn flashes a smile before delivering my
much-needed hug. I’m beyond disappointed that he’s not said a word, but
I’ll take the hug, and the fact he’s home.
“Why don’t you take your school bag up to your room, sweetie,” Chloe
says. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
Silently, Finn does as he’s asked. Chloe drops the holdall next to the
doormat and puffs her cheeks.
“At least one of us got a warm welcome,” she says.
It would be easy to misconstrue her comment as barbed, but the sadness
in her eyes suggests only disappointment. I don’t have the energy for mind
games so, for a quiet life, I plant a kiss on her cheek.
“I’m glad you’re home,” I add, trying to sound sincere. “You might not
think it, but I have missed you.”
“Really?” she chirps, expectantly.
Don’t say it, Jake. Don’t say it!
“Yeah, I had to buy the groceries. We ran out of coffee and sunflower
spread yesterday.”
Idiot.
Chloe makes a strange snorting sound and shakes her head. I didn’t mean
to drop the snarky comment, but I’ve become so obsessed with winning
even the smallest victory over my wife, I can’t help myself.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I didn’t mean that.”
She finds a tired smile. “Good.”
It isn’t only her smile that’s tired. Her entire body language screams
exhaustion.
“Do you want a coffee? You look knackered.”
“Yes, and I am. I’ve not been sleeping well.”
“Strange bed?”
 “That, and I’ve been having these odd dreams of late. Kind of surreal but
borderline disturbing.”
“Oh.”
Now is not the time to tell her about the strange dream I had — the one
where she rode Dad like a fairground horse.
“Let’s get you caffeinated, eh.”
In the kitchen, I put the kettle on and Chloe sits at the table. In the
harsher light, the dark circles around her eyes are even more evident.
“What changed your mind?” she asks as I spoon instant coffee into two
mugs. “About Mungo Thunk.”
“Desperation, I guess.”
“I’m surprised he agreed to help after Friday’s events.”
“I think we have an understanding, of sorts.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning … I’m willing to see how this goes but I’ve got my doubts. We
still know bugger all about him, or his motives.”
“But, we do know Finn is a fan.”
“And that’s the reason I’m willing to see how this goes.”
“Not because you want to save our marriage, then?”
The kettle reaches boiling point and clicks off. It gives me a few seconds
to consider my answer.
“I want the life we had, Chloe, but that’s gone now. I’ll have to see what
I’m willing to settle on.”
“It’s an answer, and better than a no.”
I take the coffee mugs to the table and sit down. Barely a second later, the
doorbell chimes.
“He’s nothing if not punctual,” I huff, getting back to my feet.
By the time I get to the front door, Finn is halfway down the stairs. I open
the door and a voice squeals from behind me.
“Mungo! You’re back!”
Before I know it, Finn is at my side, jumping up and down on the spot.
“Hello, Finn Mason,” Thunk says, nodding at my son. He then looks up
at me. “Hello, Jake Mason.”
“Evening. Come in.”
I’m about to put my arm on Finn’s shoulder to guide him back from the
door but he dashes up the hallway, yelling out to Chloe that Mungo is back.
The transformation in his demeanour couldn’t be any more profound.
 Thunk steps onto the doormat and wipes his feet.
“Come through to the kitchen.”
“I am not hungry,” he replies.
“Not for food. To talk.”
“Understood.”
He follows me down the hallway and Finn meets us in the doorway.
“I knew you’d come back, Mungo,” he says, barely able to contain his
excitement.
“Alright, mate,” I say in a level voice. “I know you’re pleased to see
Mungo but—”
Finn cuts me off and turns to Thunk. “Will you read me a bedtime
story?” he asks.
“I don’t think Mungo has—”
“Yes, Finn Mason. I will read you a story.”
“Yay!”
I glance across at Chloe, sitting at the kitchen table, looking bemused.
She nods her consent. It seems I’m outvoted.
“Take a seat,” I mumble. Thunk complies without a word.
“When is bedtime?” Finn asks.
“Um, soonish, mate.”
He then turns to Chloe. “Can I watch the rest of SpongeBob with
Mungo?”
“Mummy and Daddy need a quick chat with Mungo first. Why don’t you
go and watch TV on your own for a little while, and then I’m sure Mungo
will come and sit with you.”
Finn turns to Thunk who nods slowly. Our son grins back at him before
hurrying off to the lounge. It’s the most peculiar interaction.
“How do you do that?” Chloe asks, stealing the question from my lips.
“Do what?” Thunk replies.
“Get Finn to … all of it, actually. You’re like some kind of child
whisperer.”
“Or snatcher,” I snort, under my breath.
“You would not understand my explanation,” Thunk replies, keeping his
eyes trained on Chloe. “It is complex.”
“Could you explain it in a way we might understand?”
“For what purpose?”
 “Because we’re his parents and we desperately want to help him. Apart
from a few friends at school, he’s barely muttered a word to any adult in
weeks.”
“There is nothing wrong with your son. He chooses to communicate with
me because I am not tainted by negative emotions, nor are the children at
his place of learning. That is the simple answer to your question.”
“But, he talks to us when you’re around.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I absorb your negativity, like a sponge might absorb spilt water.
Finn Mason does not sense it like he does when I am not in your company.”
“That makes no sense,” I interject.
“I did say you would not understand. In time, you will learn that I only
ever speak the truth, or at least a version of the truth you can comprehend.”
I swap a confused frown with Chloe before turning back to Thunk.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re … you know, a bit weird?”
“Jake,” Chloe hisses.
“What?” I protest with a shrug. “He’s promised to tell the truth so
shouldn’t we do the same?”
“Yes, you should,” Thunk replies. “But, it is imperative you are also
honest with yourself.”
“That’s settled then,” I remark, crossing my arms. “Honesty all round.”
Chloe looks at her lap.
“That is settled,” Thunk says, reinforcing what I just said. “Now, I should
sit with Finn Mason.”
“Actually,” I reply. “It’s nearly his bedtime and we don’t want him too
wired. He won’t sleep.”
“In which case, I will read him the requested story.”
“Hold on a sec,” I protest. “I know he asked you, but I don’t think it’s a
good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Well … it’s, um, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it?”
“Everything is weird if you over-think it. I thought we had already
established that.”
“Have we?”
“You suggested my name was weird, did you not?”
“Err, probably.”
 “And I demonstrated that any name could be considered weird.”
“Alright, but we’re not talking about a name here. This is different.”
“No, it is not.”
Chloe then leans forward and clears her throat. “I don’t see what the
problem is, Jake. Finn wants Mungo to read him a bedtime story, so let’s let
him.”
I open my mouth to object but Thunk is already on his feet.
“There’s a shelf full of books above his bed,” Chloe says, smiling up at
him.
“I have a story of my own I will share with Finn Mason. It is a good
story.”
“Oh, okay. Can you ask him to come and say goodnight before you head
up?”
“Yes, I can.”
With that, he strides off towards the lounge.
“For God’s sake,” I spit, turning to Chloe. “You’ve just given consent for
a virtual stranger to sit alone with our son, in his bedroom. Have you lost
your mind?”
“I haven’t said he can take Finn to Center Parcs for a long weekend. He’s
upstairs, Jake. Don’t be such a worrier.”
I’m about to deliver a lecture on safeguarding issues and DBS checks
when Finn comes dancing into the kitchen, humming his favourite song
from the SpongeBob movie.
“Goodnight, Daddy,” he says, rushing over to my side.
The angst dissolves in a heartbeat as Finn looks up at me and, for the first
time in weeks, I’m gazing into the eyes of the little boy I used to know.
“Night, night,” I croak before planting a kiss on his head. “Daddy loves
you.”
“Love you, too,” he replies before repeating the process with Chloe.
I still want to object to another man reading my son a bedtime story,
particularly Mungo bloody Thunk, but Finn’s excited gestures as he skips
out of the kitchen prove a compelling reason not to. Footsteps thump up the
stairs and I’m once again left alone with Chloe.
“Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For biting your tongue. I appreciate you still have reservations about
Mungo but … but, you have to admit his effect on Finn is remarkable, and I
want our son to be like that all the time.”
“Me too,” I sigh. “I just wish there was another way.”
“In time, there might be. Let’s go with the flow for now, eh?”
I nod, and get to my feet.
“Where are you going?” Chloe asks.
“Might as well watch a bit of TV, seeing as I’m surplus to requirements.”
“Can I watch with you?”
“You don’t have to ask. This is your home.”
“I know, but it’s feeling less and less like my home with every passing
day.”
“I can show you the mortgage statements if you need definitive proof.”
“That’s not what I meant, Jake. There’s a world of difference between a
house and a home.”
I’m about to drop another snarky comment about the difference between
a marital bed and a hotel bed, but it gets stuck somewhere between brain
and mouth. Probably for the best.
Chloe follows me through to the lounge and we sit together on the sofa.
As I silently flick through the channels, there’s no ignoring the strange
atmosphere in the room. I wouldn’t call it strained but I wouldn’t call it
comfortable, either. Ever since that weekend, we’ve struggled to watch TV
together, probably because infidelity tends to feature in so many TV shows.
Chloe is an avid fan of Coronation Street but in the weeks after her
indiscretion — after I finally relented and agreed to be in the same room as
my wife — one of the main characters began an affair with a married
woman. Neither of us said anything but I walked out of the lounge after five
minutes. We haven’t watched Coronation Street since.
I stop on a show about house renovations, where it’s unlikely anyone will
be cheating on their partner. We sit and watch in silence.
The show ends after fifteen minutes, and the closing credits coincide with
footsteps on the stairs. Mungo Thunk then appears in the doorway.
“Finn Mason is asleep,” he announces.
“Oh, wow,” Chloe gushes. “Already?”
“I think I’ll just check on him,” I add with less wonderment. “He
sometimes pretends to sleep and then reads his comics the moment I shut
the door.”
Stepping past Thunk, I hurry up to Finn’s bedroom where the door is ajar
and his night light on. I poke my head in and, once my eyes adjust to the
low light, confirm the scene is no different to any other evening. Our son is
tucked under his duvet and snoring gently.
I return to the lounge with mixed emotions.
“He’s fast asleep,” I mumble, retaking my seat on the sofa.
“As I said he was,” Thunk replies from the armchair where he’s made
himself comfortable.
“So, now what?” Chloe asks, her question aimed at our guest.
“Now, I must observe Jake Mason. That is how the therapy works.”
“Define observe?” I retort.
“Are you not familiar with the word?”
“Yes, but not your interpretation. Are you going to sit there and watch me
for the next hour?”
“No. You are focussed on the television so it is unlikely I will glean any
worthwhile information.”
“Good. So, you’re off then, are you?”
“No.”
“Sorry?”
“Are you sure your hearing is not compromised? I said no, I am not off.”
“But, you said there’s no point sitting here while I watch TV.”
“That is correct. If you show me to my room, I will spend the evening
there.”
 21
It’s official. I, Jake Mason, have officially lost the plot.
For reasons I can’t quite comprehend, I’m back in the marital bed, lying
next to my adulterous wife. She’s still fast asleep but I’ve barely slept a
wink all night. Across the landing, my son is also sound asleep in his
bedroom. I know that because I’ve checked on him almost every hour
throughout the night.
Opposite Finn’s room is our spare bedroom, where I’ve spent every night
since my wife confessed her cheating ways. That run came to an end
yesterday because someone else laid claim to the bed. I can’t call him a
guest because guests are usually invited, and welcome — Mungo Thunk
invited himself to stay in our home. As for welcome, I’m pretty sure Finn
will be delighted when he wakes up to find his new friend is staying with
us, but it was Chloe who really rolled out the red carpet.
I don’t know how this happened. Well, I do, because I walked right into
Thunk’s trap, and Chloe took his side when I tried to fight my way out.
When Mungo Thunk declared that he could only conduct his therapy if
he lived with us for an unspecified period of time, I immediately dismissed
the suggestion as ridiculous. It wasn’t just his insistence on sharing our
home that I objected to, but he also wants to act as my shadow for the same
unspecified period of time. After I finished ranting, he used my objection
against me — my thinking is faulty, ergo my argument must also be flawed.
He actually had the cheek to suggest I would be better off in general if I did
the polar opposite of whatever my instincts told me.
I stared back at Thunk, open-mouthed, completely dumbstruck by his
defence. It was Chloe who eventually broke the silence, offering a
compromise. She suggested we allow Mungo to try his therapy for five
days, after which we can assess if it’s helped in any way. The two of them
then turned to me, waiting for an answer. If Finn had been in the room, I’m
sure he’d have weighed the odds against me even further. It felt like an
intervention.
I remained gobsmacked, and Thunk took my silence as cue to deliver a
damning ultimatum. He said I had two choices: continue along the same
path of self-destruction, which would lead to the inevitable dissolution of
my family or embrace his therapy. In that moment, I thought of Rick, and
the life he now leads. I reframed Thunk’s ultimatum and asked myself a
simple question — would I swap places with Rick Bingley, because that’s
where I’m heading unless I can change course?
“Morning,” Chloe yawns beside me.
“Morning.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“I’ve barely slept at all. You obviously did.”
“I don’t want to rub salt in your wounds but yes, I had the best night’s
sleep I’ve had in ages.”
“Bully for you.”
She reaches out and places her hand on my arm. “Everything will be
okay, you know.”
“Will it? On top of every other unresolved problem, we now have a
random weirdo sleeping in our spare bedroom. A man I only met six days
ago.”
“True, but at least Finn is happy. And, if we’re trying to be positive, you
now have your own personal therapist on hand 24/7.”
“Some positive,” I scoff.
“Listen, I know it’s not a conventional plan, but we need to do
something, don’t we? Whatever happens, at least we can say we tried
everything.”
That thought also came into play last night, although it was more of an
afterthought after I begrudgingly accepted Thunk’s demand. If we ever end
up in a divorce court, at least I can demonstrate the ridiculous concessions I
made to save our marriage.
A knock on the bedroom door interrupts our conversation. It’s 6.00 am,
and Finn doesn’t knock, even after he once caught Mummy and Daddy in
the middle of a naked ‘play fight’ on the bed. Over breakfast, he asked who
won.
“Hold on,” I groan, clambering out of bed.
I open the door and Thunk is standing on the landing, fully dressed.
“I believe it is customary to bid you a good morning. Therefore, good
morning, Jake Mason.”
“It’s 6.00 am. Do you always get up so early?”
“Yes. There is much to do today.”
 “For future reference, I usually get up at seven so don’t come knocking
on our door at this hour again, understood?”
“Yes.”
He continues to stare up at me, unblinking.
“Was there something else?” I ask.
“What time do you consume your first meal of the day?”
“Breakfast, you mean?”
“Yes, what time do you consume breakfast?”
“I don’t know. Whenever we sit down at the kitchen table.”
“Your lack of organisation and routine is problematic.”
“Good grief,” I groan. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and put the
kettle on.”
“Very well. Where is the nearest grocery shop?”
“There’s a Co-op on Park Road; a five-minute walk from here. Why?”
“I require foodstuffs for breakfast.”
“We’ve got bread and eggs,” Chloe calls out from the bed. “Or cereal.”
“He doesn’t drink cow’s milk,” I reply.
“Oh, that’s right. Sorry.”
“It is of no consequence. I will attempt to put the kettle on and then visit
this Co-op establishment for my own breakfast provisions.”
“Yeah, whatever … wait, what do you mean attempt to put the kettle
on?”
“I have limited experience of kettles.”
“Surely you’ve used a kettle hundreds, if not thousands of times?”
“No.”
I shake my head. I’m too tired for this shit.
“Forget the kettle. Go and do whatever you need to do.”
“Very well. I will return within thirty minutes.”
“Can’t wait,” I mumble.
Thunk turns around and marches across the landing to the stairs. I watch
him move stiffly down the first half-dozen like his knee joints are seized.
His bald head then disappears from view.
“Come back to bed,” Chloe then says. “I’ll get up in a sec and make us a
coffee.”
I turn to my wife. She’s the only woman I’ve ever known who can wake
up and look effortlessly desirable. Where my hair looks like a wig in a wind
tunnel, Chloe could leave the house without touching a hairbrush, and no
one would know any different.
Overlooking my wife’s pleasing aesthetics, the prospect of a strong
coffee proves enticement enough. I flop back into bed and close my eyes.
Chloe then kisses me gently on the forehead before she gets up and breezes
out of the room. The kiss, even though it was affectionate rather than
lustful, was a bold move on her part.
My doze is brief but the coffee in bed is welcome. It’s interrupted,
though, when Thunk returns and Finn wakes up. I’d like to be annoyed but
hearing our son chatting and giggling on the landing is music to my ears.
He then bursts into the bedroom, closely followed by Chloe in a dressing
gown, fresh from the shower.
“Morning, Daddy!” he yells, jumping on the bed.
“Good morning, little man. Someone is full of beans this morning.”
“Not me. I don’t like beans.”
I give him a hug but he’s a ball of energy and quickly wrestles himself
free.
“Is Mungo coming to school with me?” he asks.
“I don’t think grown-ups are allowed in school,” Chloe replies while
fixing her make up.
“But, teachers are grown-ups,” Finn retorts.
“Yes, but they’re the only grown-ups allowed in school during the day.”
“What about dinner ladies?”
“Them too.”
“And Mr Wellard?”
“He’s the caretaker, and he has to be there to fix things.”
Having lost the argument, our son says he needs to talk to Mungo, and
races away. As I get out of bed for the umpteenth time since I climbed into
it last night, Chloe spins around on her stool.
“I’d almost forgotten how noisy our son is in the mornings.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“God, I’ve missed it.”
I reach for my dressing gown, abandoned on the floor at some point
during the night.
“I also miss how things were before,” Chloe adds.
“So do I, but—”
“Before you launch into a lecture, I’m talking about our jobs.”
 “Our jobs?”
“Specifically, yours. Have you been keeping an eye on the recruitment
websites lately?”
“I get email alerts every day but nothing suitable has come up. Why the
sudden interest?”
“I suppose it’s having Finn back, really. I miss being at home with him.”
“It was your idea to work full-time.”
“Yes, it was my idea but we both know it wasn’t through choice. I
thought it would only be for a few months, until you found a suitable
position.”
“It’s not for the want of trying but there’s not much I can do about the job
market.”
“I know,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “Ignore me. I’m sure
something will come up before long.”
She returns her attention to the mirror, and I head to the bathroom.
Chloe’s words linger, and they’re accompanied by the mental image of my
wife when she returned home yesterday evening. She looked exhausted, and
I wonder if the stress and pressure of her job are now taking their toll.
Chloe never wanted to climb too far up the career ladder and she never
planned on being the main breadwinner, either. As it stands, though, we’ve
no alternative but to keep up the arrangement, much as I hate it.
I hop in the shower for two minutes and then quickly get dressed.
Because she has to leave the house forty minutes before I do, Chloe usually
grabs a slice of toast and I sort Finn’s breakfast, although he’s almost self-
sufficient these days.
With my wife still getting ready for work, I plod down to the kitchen.
Finn is at the table with Thunk and at first glance, it looks like my son has
poured himself a bowl of cereal. A quick glance inside the bowl suggests
otherwise.
“What are you eating?” I ask him.
“It’s Mungo’s special breakfast. I like it.”
I turn to Thunk. “What are you feeding my son?”
“Mixed nuts, berries, and soy yoghurt.”
“Who said you could give him that?”
“No one. He asked.”
“You can’t just give kids whatever they ask for. What if he had a nut
allergy?”
 “Does he?”
“Well, no, but that’s not the point. We decide what Finn eats.”
“And yet, you allow him to eat cereal that has almost as little nutritional
benefit as the cardboard box in which it is sold.”
“This is good for my brain, Daddy,” Finn intervenes. “And my bones.”
“He is correct,” Thunk confirms.
“But it tastes a bit like dirt,” Finn adds.
It’s too early and I’ve not poured enough coffee down my neck to
continue the conversation. On top of that, I’m not sure it’s an argument I
can win. Chloe is always nagging me about Finn’s breakfast but as she’s not
the one who has to prepare it, I too readily settle on cereal. Even when I do
make an effort, I would never have thought to serve berries, nuts and soy
yoghurt, because Finn is not a horse.
“Check with me in future, alright?” I grumble.
Thunk nods and continues eating.
Once breakfast is out of the way, I send Finn up to get ready for school.
This usually involves a series of questions relating to lost clothing and the
occasional fib about brushed teeth. Today, he gets ready without my
assistance and in record time.
“Have you brushed your teeth?” I ask as he stands in the hallway.
“Yes, Daddy,” he replies before puffing a minty breath as proof.
“Good boy. Let’s get your coat on and we can enjoy a leisurely drive to
school, for once.”
As I reach up to grab Finn’s coat from the stand, Thunk appears in the
kitchen doorway.
“Are we ready to leave?” he asks.
“We?”
“Correct. As in you, Finn Mason, and me.”
“You want to come on the school run?”
“Will you be returning home before you travel to your place of
employment?”
“No.”
“In which case, I will have to leave with you now.”
“Is Mungo going to work with you?” Finn asks.
“No, mate. He’s not.”
“Your father is incorrect,” Thunk argues. “It is important I observe his
behaviour in the workplace.”
 “Hold on,” I protest, “You never said anything about coming to work
with me.”
“It is necessary.”
“What am I supposed to tell my boss? It’s not National Take-a-Weirdo-
to-Work Day.”
“You work in a retail store, correct?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Members of the public are commonplace in a retail store so my presence
will not attract attention.”
“And exactly how long are you intending to loiter around?”
“That is to be determined. It might be as little as one hour, but it could be
several.”
“And do you honestly think no one is going to notice you hanging around
for several hours?”
“That is not your concern. You will conduct your duties as normal.”
“I can’t stop you, but don’t blame me if one of my colleagues asks you to
leave. We have enough cranks in the store as it is.”
“You’re so lucky, Daddy,” Finn then interjects. “I wish I could spend the
day with Mungo.”
Lucky is not a word I’d use. Cursed feels more appropriate.
 22
“I’m sure Mungo would rather wait in the car,” I argue.
“Your assumption is incorrect,” the man in question says from the back
seat. “I would not rather wait in the car.”
I look over my left shoulder and throw a stern glare Thunk’s way.
“Let’s go, Mungo,” Finn then says, opening the passenger’s door.
My son and his unlikely friend then clamber out of the car, closing the
doors behind them. I puff a sigh, unbuckle my seatbelt, and join them on the
pavement.
I usually take Finn’s hand for the final leg to the school gates but this
morning, he strides ahead with Thunk at his side. For the life of me, I
cannot understand what my son finds so beguiling about the man. He’s
creepy, judgemental, and utterly charmless. When I get the opportunity, I
might just ask Finn why he likes being friends with Thunk. That’s assuming
my son will even talk to me when we’re alone.
My mood is lifted when we reach the school gates and Finn delivers a
proper goodbye, but only after he’s said a goodbye to Thunk.
“See you later, Daddy,” my son chirps before hurrying off towards the
playground.
“Bye, mate,” I call after him. “Have a great day.”
I watch Finn for a moment, until Alfie appears at his side. The two
friends then make their way towards the classroom.
“Hey, Jake,” a female voice then calls out.
I turn around as Rachel approaches.
“Oh, hi.”
“I’m glad I caught you,” she says. “Alfie has been nagging me about
Finn coming over again, and I was wondering if Friday would be okay with
you?”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Cool. And how would you feel about Finn staying over? I understand if
you’d rather he didn’t, but I know Alfie would love a sleepover.”
“Um, I’ll need to double-check with Chloe, but I don’t see why not.”
“Okay, great. Ping me a text once you’ve cleared it with Chloe.”
 “Of course, and thanks. I … err, I mean we, appreciate you inviting him
over.”
“No trouble. Speak soon.”
Rachel hurries away and I turn back to the playground. Neither Finn nor
Alfie are anywhere to be seen.
“Who was that woman?” Thunk then asks, reminding me I’m not alone.
“Rachel. Don’t know her surname.”
“Her child is friends with Finn Mason?”
I look down at Thunk. “Why do you insist on using his full name, and
Chloe’s and mine, for that matter?”
“I do not insist on anything. I merely use the names you go by.”
“It’s weird, so stop doing it. It’s just Finn, okay? Finn, Chloe, and Jake.”
“Understood, and you may call me Mungo.”
“Yeah, I’m well aware of your name, thanks.”
“Then, why do you refer to me as Thunk?”
“Eh? I don’t?”
I think back to the conversations I’ve had with Chloe — the only person
I’ve ever said the name Thunk to. Did he over-hear?
“My name is Mungo,” he reiterates. “Not Thunk.”
“Right … Mungo.”
Point made, he doesn’t say another word on the short walk back to the
car. I hop in and fiddle with the radio, hoping the music will discourage
conversation. The rear door then opens, and the man who must now be
referred to as Mungo gets in.
“What are you doing?” I ask, staring into the rear-view mirror.
“Putting on the seatbelt. It is the law.”
“No, I mean, why are you sitting in the back?”
“As opposed to where?”
“The front. I’m not a chauffeur.”
“You want me to sit in the front seat?”
“For crying out loud. Yes.”
He unfastens his seatbelt, gets out of the car, and then climbs into the
front seat.
“Thank you,” I huff.
“You are welcome.”
I start the car and pull away from the kerb, positive in my view that
today, Wednesday, is going to be as long and painstaking as any Monday. A
few minutes into the journey, my passenger makes a statement over the
music.
“You did not answer my question.”
“What question?”
“About the woman outside the school, Rachel. I asked if her child is
friends with Finn.”
“Yes, he is. His name is Alfie.”
“You are friends with Rachel?”
“Not friends as such, no. Why do you ask?”
“Because I am curious.”
“Ohh, I see,” I reply in a teasing tone. “Fancy Rachel, do you?”
“What is fancy?”
“Do you find her attractive?”
“I have no opinion. Do you?”
“I’ve never really thought about her that way. Even if I did, she’s
probably married … as am I.”
“She does not wear a wedding ring.”
“You noticed, then?”
“I notice much.”
“Hmm, I’m sure you do but, as I said, it’s of no consequence. And
besides, just because someone isn’t wearing a wedding ring, it doesn’t
necessarily mean they’re single.”
“That, I do know.”
“What about you? Are you in a relationship? Ever been married?”
“No, and no.”
I can’t say I’m surprised. It’s almost impossible to picture the kind of
woman who’d enter a relationship with Mungo Thunk.
“When was the last time you dated someone?”
“Dated, as in, venture out with someone you are romantically or sexually
attracted to?”
“Yes, that.”
“I have never dated.”
“What? You’ve never been on a date, or you’ve never dated anyone?”
“Neither.”
“Christ. Why not?”
“I have no need for a partner.”
“Each to their own, I suppose.”
 “But you do. You need Chloe.”
“Is that a question or an observation?”
“It is an observation, although it is clear that your relationship is in
jeopardy.”
Delivered with such icy detachment, his statement is like a jab to the ribs.
It takes a few seconds to compose a response.
“What drew you to that conclusion?”
“As I said: I observe, I notice.”
“Here’s something else for you to notice — it’s none of your business.”
“Everything is my business because you agreed to be honest in this
process, especially with your own feelings.”
“I’m not about to take relationship advice from a virgin.”
“Who would you accept relationship advice from?”
“Eh?”
“It is a simple question. You stated that you will not listen to me, so I am
curious — whose advice you would seek.”
“I have mates, okay. People I know, and trust.”
“There is that word again: trust. Your reliance on it is misplaced.”
“In your opinion.”
“Yes, and it might possibly be yours, too, given time.”
I glance to my left, ready to deliver another glare but Mungo is now
staring out of the side window. Trapped in a car together, it would be easy
to resurrect the conversation and push back against his views, but those
views aren’t entirely wrong — my marriage is in jeopardy. Of greater
concern, though, is an obvious assumption. If our guest can detect the
tension between me and Chloe, it stands to reason that Finn can too.
There’s no further conversation for the final mile of my journey to work.
I pull in to the car park behind TechWorld and switch off the engine.
“We are at your place of work?” Mungo confirms.
“Yep, and this is where we go our separate ways. I’m going to the
staffroom for a coffee and you can do whatever you like.”
“What is TechWorld?” he then asks, looking up at the sign on the rear of
the building.
“We … they, sell tech products. Everything from coffee machines to
games consoles.”
“Interesting.”
“It really isn’t. I can’t stand the job.”
 “Why is that?”
“How long have you got?” I snort.
“I have all the time in the world, Jake. You, however, do not.”
I glance at the dashboard clock. He’s not wrong.
“Alright, long story short. I used to have a great job as a manager in IT
but I was made redundant back in the summer. I couldn’t, and still can’t,
find a similar position, or at least one that pays what I used to earn. So, for
now, I’ve no choice but to work here.”
“Understood,” he replies with a slight nod, followed by a prolonged
period of silence as he continues staring up at the sign.
“Good chat,” I snort, breaking the silence. “Thanks for your input.”
“I did not provide any input.”
“I was being sarcastic.”
He doesn’t respond or react in any way.
“Are you getting out of the car, then? Some of us have a job to get to.”
“Yes.”
With the urgency of a sloth, Mungo unbuckles his seatbelt and extracts
himself from the passenger’s seat. We then convene on the path.
“Right, I’m off, and remember what I said about loitering around in the
store. I can’t stop you going in there but if you hang around my section for
too long, someone will notice, and they’ll ask you to leave.”
“Understood. How do I access TechWorld?” he asks.
“Go around the front and use the main entrance.”
“What time do you finish work?”
“Three o’clock, and then I go back to the school to collect Finn.”
He nods, turns on his heels, and starts walking towards the side of the
building. I watch him until he turns the corner, out of sight. I’d love to think
it’ll be the last time I ever set eyes on Mungo Thunk, but I fear he’ll follow
through on his mad idea and I’ll see him again on the shop floor.
“What have you let yourself in for, Jake?” I mumble, before heading to
the staff entrance.
Ten minutes and one coffee later, I traipse down the stairs and out to the
shop floor. After a cursory scan, there’s no sign of Mungo Thunk. I
continue on to the customer service desk, mercifully also Thunk-free.
“Good morning, Jake,” Ash beams. “How are you doing today?”
“Ask me at three o’clock.”
“Why then?”
 “Because I’ve got a horrible feeling today is going to be one of those
days.”
“Well, I have enough optimism for both of us, and I think it’s going to be
a great day.”
I only half hear Ash as I continue scanning the store for my diminutive
therapist. He’s either hiding behind a display or checking out the coffee
machines on the far side of the store. Either way, he’s not bothering me, and
for that I’m grateful.
“I need to have a quick word with Barry,” Ash then says. “Will you be
okay on your own for ten minutes?”
“I’m sure I’ll cope.”
Ash then hurries away while I continue my surveillance. Five minutes
pass and the coast remains clear, until a customer saunters up to the counter,
a carrier bag in his left hand. In his sixties, I’d guess, and crimson-cheeked,
I’ve got a vague idea what he’s going to say before he even opens his
mouth.
He plonks the bag on the counter. “I bought this last week, and it ain’t fit
for purpose.”
“Yeah, good morning to you too.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, good morning, Sir.”
He mumbles a few words and then unfurls the edges of the carrier bag to
reveal a box for an Alexa smart speaker.
“What’s the problem with it?” I ask.
“It don’t work.”
“In what way doesn’t it work?”
“I plugged it in and the light on top keeps pulsing on and off, but that’s it.
On the TV ad, you can ask questions and play music. This one must be
buggered ’cos it don’t do nothing … might as well talk to myself.”
“Did you follow the instructions?”
“Yeah, course I did.”
Pound to a penny, he didn’t, and I’d also bet I know the reason why the
speaker isn’t working.
“Did you connect it to your Wi-Fi network?”
The man scratches his head and frowns at the box.
“Do you have the internet at home, Sir?”
“No, I ain’t. What’s that got to do with anything?” he huffs indignantly.
 “The device only works if it’s connected to the internet, via Wi-Fi.”
“No one told me that when I bought it.”
“It does say on the box that an internet connection is required, and in the
instructions.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
More head scratching ensues. I suppose I should be grateful he’s not
brought back a toaster, complaining that it’s not fit for purpose because he
hasn’t got any bread at home.
“I can arrange for someone to call you about having broadband installed
if you like. It’s a £50 set-up fee and then £19.99 a month.”
“Nah, I can’t afford that. I live on my own, and I’m on a state pension.”
“So, you’d you like a refund, Sir?”
Technically, there’s nothing wrong with his smart speaker and TechWorld
aren’t obliged to offer a refund. However, it’s not my money and I do feel a
bit sorry for him.
“Yeah, please,” he replies. “And thank you.”
I process the refund and the customer departs in a much better mood than
when he arrived.
Having fulfilled my one good deed for the day, the rest of the morning
proves uneventful, not least because Mungo Thunk fails to appear. Maybe
he concluded that harassing me at work was unlikely to reap rewards.
I take my lunch break and return to the customer service counter. Two
hours pass and I’ve only got twenty minutes of my shift remaining when
Ash asks if I’ll help with a delivery. Despite my protestations, he says it’ll
only take ten minutes. After much huffing and puffing, I relent, and amble
slowly to the storeroom. By the time I reach the goods inward bay, one of
my colleagues is in the process of wheeling a trolley from an empty lorry.
“I was told to come and lend a hand with a delivery,” I say to Mark, the
storeroom supervisor.
“A bit bloody late now,” he moans. “I needed help fifteen minutes ago.”
“Sorry.”
He pushes the trolley to the side and then signs a docket for the driver.
“Err, do you need me now?” I ask Mark as the driver heads back to his
cab.
“No, not really.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.”
 Rather than return to the shop floor, I head to the toilets. Ash will
presume I’m helping with the delivery, so it’s a good opportunity to run
down the clock to the end of my shift. I spend ten minutes sitting in a
cubicle, reading the Aldervale fans’ forum on my phone, and then return to
the shop floor a few minutes before three o’clock.
Just as I turn left by a display stand, and the customer service counter
comes into view, I catch sight of a short figure dressed in black, moving
away towards the main doors. By the time I reach the counter, he’s long
gone, and so too is my opportunity to confirm if it was Mungo Thunk. I
approach Ash.
“Did you just see a short, bald guy in a black suit? Looks a bit like
Gollum?”
“Your friend, Mungo?”
“My what?”
“The short gentleman in the suit. He said he knew you.”
“Sorry, backtrack a sec, Ash. You spoke to him?”
“Yes. We had a very pleasant chat for about five minutes.”
“About what?”
“A range of subjects. He was initially curious about my Indian heritage,
and then we talked about my parents, and my grandparents, and …”
“Yeah, that’s not really what I meant. Did he ask about me?”
“I did tell him you were helping with a delivery and wouldn’t be too
long.”
“No, I mean, did he ask any specific questions about me?”
“He asked what you were like at work.”
“And what did you say?”
Ash’s eyes dart left and right — everywhere but directly at me.
“Tell me, Ash. I won’t be offended.”
“I said you were a good man at heart.”
“But?”
“But … you always seem so unhappy, so bitter.”
I’m slightly taken aback by my colleague’s confession. I know I’m not
exactly a ray of sunshine at work, but I never thought it defined my
personality.
“I’m so sorry, Jake,” Ash says in a low voice. “I’m not even sure why I
said it. He had a very persuasive way about him … I don’t know how to
explain it. As soon as the words formed in my mind, I’d opened my mouth
and said them aloud.”
“Don’t worry about it, Ash. I’ve heard worse said about me.”
“You’re not upset?”
“No. Forget it,” I sigh, glancing at my watch. “Anyway, I’d better get
going.”
Throwing him a feeble smile, I head back across the shop floor and then
leave via the staff entrance. As the door shuts behind me, I turn to face my
car. Mungo Thunk is standing next to the passenger’s door. I wasn’t sure
he’d be here but, now he is, I want to know what he’s been up to.
 23
Time is not on my side, so I begin interrogating Mungo Thunk the
moment I pull out of the parking bay.
“What were you talking to Ash about?”
“We discussed several subjects.”
“I don’t give a shit about your chit-chat. What was said about me.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because … because I don’t like the idea of you talking to my colleagues
about me.”
“Are you annoyed that I had a conversation with your colleague, or are
you annoyed because you do not know what we discussed?”
“Both. I never said you could talk to my colleagues.”
“Did you say I could not talk to your colleagues?”
I’m so irritated I only spot a red traffic light at the last second. I brake
hard and the car comes to an abrupt halt.
“You should focus on driving,” Mungo remarks. “Ninety-four per cent of
all road traffic accidents are due to human error.”
“We didn’t have an accident, and if we had, it would have been your
fault.”
“You are driving. I am not.”
“You distracted me.”
“Your heightened emotions distracted you. I recommend we continue this
conversation after you have completed the journey.”
“Fine,” I huff. “But I want answers.”
Neither of us says another word until I pull up in the side street close to
Belle Vue Infant School.
“Right,” I snap, removing the ignition key. “I’m now going to fetch Finn
and you’re coming with me. You can talk while we walk.”
As we set off towards the school, Mungo poses a question before I’ve
barely got into my stride.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to know exactly what you and Ash said about me.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Yes, and he said you asked what it was like, working with me.”
 “And did he answer your question?”
“Kind of.”
“Then what else is there to know?”
“I don’t understand why you asked Ash in the first place. I barely know
the guy, and I wouldn’t trust anything he says.”
“Are you suggesting he misled me in his assessment?”
“Not deliberately, but Ash sees the world through rose-tinted glasses.”
“He was not wearing spectacles when we talked.”
“Are you taking the piss?” I groan. “I didn’t mean he literally wears rose-
tinted glasses. I meant, Ash has an unusually cheerful way about him, and
he’s optimistic to the point of irritation.”
“You find optimism an irritation?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about pessimism?”
“What about it?”
“Do you find people who are overly pessimistic as irritating as those who
are optimistic?”
“Not really. I understand why people are pessimistic.”
“Understand how?”
“You ever heard the saying; pessimists are rarely disappointed?”
“I have not.”
“Well, now you have, and I happen to believe there’s some truth in it.”
Mungo pauses for a second, and then rubs his chin.
“Interesting,” he muses. “Did your colleague tell you how he answered
my question?”
“He seems to think I’m unhappy a lot of the time.”
“And are you?”
“No, not all of the time, and I was quite happy with my life until …”
I realise I can’t complete my sentence without confessing Chloe’s sin,
and I’m not prepared to go there.
“Until?” Mungo prompts.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Wisely, he doesn’t press the matter. I move the conversation back to my
original question.
“Did Ash say anything else about me?”
“That he considers you a friend.”
“A friend,” I snort. “Seriously?”
 “Why do you scoff at that suggestion?”
“We’re not friends. As I said, I barely know the guy.”
“But he knows you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“He knows your wife’s name, and your son’s. He knows what you do in
your spare time, and how you take your coffee. He knows you struggle with
motivation on Mondays and that you disliked a former colleague, Troy,
because he was arrogant.”
“He told you all that?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
I make a mental note to have a word with Ash tomorrow, the sneak.
“Putting Ash to one side, where have you been all day?”
“I have been observing.”
“Observing what?”
“You, primarily.”
“No, you haven’t. Up until the end of my shift, I’m almost certain you
never stepped foot in the store.”
“Just because you did not see me, that does not mean I was not there.”
His words sound suspiciously like a line from the Bible. I never paid
much attention in RE lessons at school, so I couldn’t say for sure.
“You were either there or you weren’t, Mungo, and I’m sure you
weren’t.”
“If that is the answer you want, so be it. I was not there.”
I roll my eyes and we continue on to the school. At Finn’s classroom, the
door is already open and the first kids are lined up, ready to escape. One by
one, parents step forward to swap smiles with Miss Kimble and collect their
excited offspring. Finally, Finn emerges and I step forward.
“Hey, little man,” I say before throwing a smile towards his teacher.
He looks straight past me for a second, and then answers. “Hello,
Daddy.”
I return my attention to Miss Kimble and ask how he’s been.
“He’s doing really well,” she replies in a hushed tone. “That visit to the
counsellor seems to have paid off.”
I nod and feign another smile. I’m pretty sure our one and only visit to a
counsellor is not the reason Finn is back to his old self.
“Thanks.”
 I turn around and guide Finn back through the crowd of parents but he
suddenly darts forward towards a low wall where Mungo is loitering. Then,
he reaches out his hand. For a moment, I fear he’s going to hold Mungo’s
hand all the way back to the car while I dawdle behind like a third wheel.
My concern is short lived when Finn suddenly shakes hands with his new
friend. It’s the most peculiar of sights, seeing a four-year-old child shaking
hands with an adult, even if that adult isn’t much taller than a child himself.
I catch up with my son.
“Who taught you to shake hands, mate?”
“Mungo did. He said it’s a polite way to say hello.”
“Oh, okay.”
I suppose I should be grateful. Finn is quite an affectionate boy but I sure
as hell wouldn’t want him offering Mungo a hug.
Once we reach the car, Finn hops into his booster seat in the back and
insists Mungo sits next to him. He then starts chatting relentlessly about his
day. Keeping my eyes on the road, I could almost pretend it’s just the two of
us in the car, and everything in my life is as it once was.
We arrive home and Finn dashes off to his bedroom to get changed. I
wander through to the kitchen to check what’s in the fridge for dinner,
closely followed by Mungo. It’s an opportunity to ask a few more
questions.
“Don’t you find this all a bit weird, staying with strangers and doing
whatever it is you do without being paid?”
“No.”
“I do. I think it’s bloody weird.”
“Then why did you agree?”
“Seeing as you want complete honesty, if it wasn’t for Chloe, you
wouldn’t be here.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“Perhaps you can now do me the same courtesy and tell me why you’re
doing this.”
“Because I’m curious.”
“About what? Me?”
“You and, more broadly, the human experience.”
“The human experience? What’s that when it’s at home?”
Mungo steps over to the table and sits down.
 “Do you understand how miraculous it is that you, and every other
human alive today, even exists?”
“Not really,” I shrug. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“Why?”
“Even if you followed your bloodline back a mere thousand years, your
ancestors survived war, famine, plagues, disease, and hardships you cannot
imagine. Even three hundred years ago, the average life expectancy was
only forty-three years and for every ten children born, six never survived to
adulthood.”
“That’s bloody grim.”
“And yet, against almost insurmountable odds, you are here today
because generation after generation of your forebears survived.”
“Okay, I get it … my ancestors had a shitty lot in life but still managed to
knock out a few kids. So what?”
Mungo’s eyes narrow, but I wouldn’t say he’s scowling exactly as his
forehead remains free from frown lines.
“I am keen to understand the human experience because it is, on the
whole, totally illogical. You have more than any generation before and yet,
you are so unhappy.”
“I told you, I was happy.”
“And what is it that could have changed your outlook so dramatically? Is
your family on the brink of starvation due to crop failure? Is your first-born
dying of dysentery? Has a feudal overlord cast you from your home?”
“I know what you’re trying to do, Mungo.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah, I’m not stupid. I know there are plenty of people in a far worse
position than me. I get it, alright, but that doesn’t make my pain any less
valid.”
“Your pain? Can you elaborate?”
I instantly regret being so candid, and choose to search the fridge rather
than answer his question.
“Tell me about your pain, Jake?”
“Forget I said that. I’m not comfortable discussing my problems with a
stranger.”
He slowly gets to his feet and steps towards me, stopping short of the
fridge. “In which case, we cannot remain strangers. Do you now understand
why I am here?”
“Err, not really.”
“You need to open your mind to me. Only then will I be able to show you
that neither your pain nor your problems are real. Both are symptoms of
your own broken mind.”
“Wow,” I snort, slamming the fridge door shut. “That’s some seriously
deep bullshit, Mungo.”
“It is the truth, and you will see it before long.”
“Well, let’s hope it’s before Sunday, because that’s as long as I promised
to put up with this ridiculous charade.”
“Indeed. For now, though, I will go and talk to Finn. He is more open-
minded than his father.”
Snarky remark delivered, Mungo strides out of the kitchen. I shake my
head and refocus on tonight’s dinner. Five minutes later, I hear Finn
chatting away as he, and presumably his buddy, head into the lounge to
watch TV. Whatever I think about Mungo, the poor sod has my pity if he’s
about to sit through the SpongeBob movie again.
One aspect of daytime parental duties I’m still trying to navigate is the
spare time between commitments. After picking Finn up from school,
there’s usually an hour to kill before I start dinner. Most days, I end up
wasting that hour on the Aldervale fans’ forum or mindlessly trawling
Facebook. Today, however, an alternative distraction arrives in the form of
a phone call from my dad.
“Alright, Boy.”
“Not bad. What’s up?”
“You’ve forgotten, ain’t you?”
“Forgotten what?”
“You said you’d take a look at this laptop for me. Bleedin’ thing still ain’t
working.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I’ve had a lot on my plate.”
“Ain’t we all, Son. Mel’s going in for an op next week and she’s fretting
about it.”
“You never said.”
“She don’t like me talking about it. You know what women are like.”
“It’s nothing too serious, I hope.”
“It’s her … you know, her breast.”
 Despite Dad’s vague description, I can fill in the blanks myself. It’s a
cause for concern, even though I’m not exactly Melanie’s number one fan.
“Christ, Dad. You must be worried sick.”
“I am a bit. She’ll be in hospital for two whole days, and you know I
can’t cook.”
“I mean, worried about Mel’s operation.”
“Nah, I ain’t worried about that — the surgeon has fixed plenty of wonky
tits in his time.”
“Wonky tits?”
“Yeah, Mel is obsessed that her left tit hangs at a different angle to the
right one, so she’s getting it straightened out.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I huff. “I thought it was something serious.”
“It is serious. Mel will want new bras and bikinis once it’s done, and who
do you think is gonna foot the bill, eh?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I know, but a man’s gotta look after his wife. Anyway, about this
laptop.”
“I’ll pop over tomorrow evening.”
“Can’t you make it tonight?”
“Err, it’s not really ideal. I’ve not been sleeping too well of late, and I
was hoping for a relaxing evening and an early night.”
“Suppose tomorrow will have to do, then. Make it around seven-ish,
alright.”
“Fine. See you tomorrow.”
Dad ends the call and I squeeze my eyes shut through sheer frustration.
Why does every interaction with my dad make my blood simmer? It always
feels like I’m at the wrong end of a dodgy deal in a pub, and I’ve been
hoodwinked. And he rarely shows much interest in my life or his
grandson’s. They say blood is thicker than water but, in my case, it’s as thin
as piss.
To avoid thinking too long or too hard about my fractured relationship
with Dad, I turn to the Aldervale fans’ forum and the posts discussing
Saturday’s home match against Barnet. If I were looking for a source of
optimism, it soon becomes clear I’m looking in the wrong place. Most fans
predict another loss but if there’s a silver lining, many hope another defeat
will spell the end for our manager. There’s also talk of a protest outside the
boardroom after the match, and a plea for as many fans as possible to
attend.
For a moment, I’m inclined to feel some sympathy towards our hapless
manager, and the wrath he’s bound to endure on Saturday if we lose again.
At the end of the day, he’s just a bloke trying to do his best. Saying that, at
least he’s not living with an unfaithful wife, a child with selective mutism,
and Mungo bloody Thunk.
Maybe I will attend that protest.
 24
I did get an early night but not the eight hours of uninterrupted sleep I
hoped for. In the early hours of the morning, Chloe yelped so loudly, she
woke me up.
“It must have been something I ate,” my wife says, sitting at the dressing
table while I stumble out of bed.
“Really?” I reply, stifling a yawn. “I don’t think lasagne causes
nightmares.”
“No, but it does give me indigestion.”
“Whatever the cause, you scared the life out of me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell in your ear, but if it’s any consolation, it
scared me too.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
“Um, I can’t remember now.”
“I don’t suppose it had anything to do with your little chat with Mungo
Thunk last night.”
“Sorry?”
“I heard you two talking before you came up to bed. At least fifteen
minutes, I reckon.”
Chloe checks her makeup in the mirror before answering. It’s an obvious
tell — she’s playing for time, carefully considering her response.
“No, my nightmare didn’t have anything to do with Mungo, and yes, we
did have a chat.”
“What about?”
“Finn, mainly.”
“Do you want to expand on that?”
“I asked how long it would be before our son feels comfortable talking to
us when Mungo isn’t around.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said it was up to us … well, you, really.”
“Me?”
“Apparently, you’re at risk of collapsing under the weight of your own
negativity, and whether you realise it or not, Finn can sense you’re
struggling. Mungo believes that our son won’t talk to us alone because he’s
scared of saying something that might tip you, or both of us, over the edge.”
“It’s the opinion of a man we know nothing about,” I reply, dismissively.
“Anyway, is it any surprise I’m struggling with positivity, considering
what’s happened in recent months?”
“No, but Mungo also said that if you want his help, you have to let him
in.”
“I’ve already let him into our bloody home, Chloe. Isn’t that enough?”
She gets up off the stool and stands directly in front of me.
“No, it’s not,” she replies in a measured tone. “I’m terrified of losing you,
Jake, and I’m not willing to shut the door on any offer of help.”
“Even if that help is from a random oddball with no obvious
qualifications or motive?”
“Yes, because I’m willing to take a risk to save this family. We need help,
and irrespective of his motives or methods, I believe Mungo is our best
hope … our only hope, as you’re not willing to try counselling.”
Chloe steps forward and leans in so her lips are only inches from my
right ear. “Let him in, please, Jake,” she says, softly. “If not for me, for
Finn.”
Request made, my wife grabs her jacket and confirms she’s off to work.
Fifteen minutes later, once I’ve showered and dressed, I head downstairs.
Finn meets me in the kitchen doorway.
“Morning, Daddy,” he says, cheerfully. “Did you sleep well?”
“Well, I didn’t …”
Part of my conversation with Chloe is reason enough to stop mid-
sentence. I don’t need to dump my negativity on Finn.
“I slept brilliantly, mate. What about you?”
“I dreamt about a dinosaur.”
“Oh, wow! That sounds like a cool dream.”
“His name was Eric, and we took him for a walk in the park.”
“Did we now? I hope Eric behaved himself.”
“Not really. He was quite naughty, but that’s because Eric is a puppy
dinosaur.”
“Ahh, yes, those puppy dinosaurs can be mischievous. There is a way to
make them behave, though.”
“Is there?”
“Yes … we send in the TICKLE MONSTER!”
 Finn squeals in excitement as I swoop down and let the Tickle Monster
go to work on his ribcage. I only stop when the desperate victim cries out
that he’s about to pee his pants. The monster relents and a still-giggling
Finn dashes up to the bathroom.
Sporting a wide smile, I enter the kitchen to sort breakfast. My smile
soon fades when I find Mungo Thunk standing at the patio doors, looking
out across the garden. He slowly turns around.
“Good morning, Jake.”
“Morning.”
I switch the kettle on and prepare a coffee, but I can almost sense
Mungo’s gaze as I move around the kitchen. Deciding the silence is the
likeliest cause of my unease, I throw a question over my shoulder.
“What are you doing today? No further plans to interrogate my
colleagues, I hope.”
“I will come with you to Finn’s school, and then I intend to conduct
further research.”
“What does that entail?”
“Nothing for you to concern yourself with. I will return to the school at
3.10 pm.”
“So, almost seven hours without your ugly mug. Lucky me.”
“You are certainly lucky, Jake. If only you knew how lucky.”
Mungo then strides towards the door to the hallway. I bark a question
before he gets there. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I would have thought it was plainly obvious,” he replies, nonchalantly.
“And, on an unrelated matter, Finn has already consumed breakfast.”
With that, he continues on his way.
Mungo’s departure leaves me with mixed emotions. I’m mildly annoyed
at yet another of his now-familiar vague statements, but I’m also secretly
grateful that I don’t have to prep Finn’s breakfast. I’m also grateful for the
brief moment I shared with my son and the Tickle Monster. I’ve missed
them both.
The rest of the pre-school routine follows the same path as yesterday.
Mungo joins us in the car and on the walk to the school gates. Once Finn
has said a cheery goodbye, he scoots off to join Alfie. I watch him for a
moment until I become aware that one of the parents is staring at me. It then
occurs that for the second day running, I’ve arrived at the school gates with
Mungo, and we’ve waved Finn off together. Not that I’d be in the slightest
bit concerned about anyone’s judgement if I were a gay father, but God, I’d
hate anyone to think I couldn’t attract a better-looking man than Mungo.
“I’ve got to get going,” I mumble before digging my hands into my
pockets and stepping away from the gates.
“I will be back here at 3.10 pm,” Mungo calls after me.
“Yeah, whatever.”
I stride purposefully away, hoping Mungo doesn’t hang around and chat
to any of the parents or, God forbid, inform them he’s just moved in with
me.
Ten minutes later, I pull into the TechWorld car park and go through the
same tedious routine: park up, hurry to the staffroom, drink a truly dreadful
mug of instant coffee, and then wander down to the shop floor at one
minute to nine. Another given is at the customer service counter to greet
me.
“Morning, Jake,” Ash says brightly.
“Yes, it is, and before it gets too busy, I want a word with you.”
“Oh?”
“If that Mungo bloke turns up again, and you fancy another chat, keep
your opinions of me to yourself.”
Ash looks at his feet and twiddles with the end of his tie.
“I will not talk to him about you again,” he finally confirms. “And I’m
sorry for telling him that you’re unhappy.”
“Good, and if you knew how much shit I’ve got to contend with at the
moment, you wouldn’t be so judgemental.”
“But you never talk to me, Jake. If something is troubling you, I’d be
happy to listen and help if I can. I hope you know that.”
“Ash, we’re work colleagues, alright. I don’t need your sympathy or
advice or … or friendship. Got it?”
He nods but keeps his chin low. “I get it.”
The rest of the workday proves uneventful, although Ash does his best to
keep out of my way.
Once my shift at TechWorld is over, I head back across town to complete
the collection leg of the school run. True to his word, Mungo is waiting at
the main gates.
“Did you have a good day at work?” he asks.
“Not particularly.”
“May I ask why not?”
 “No, you may not.”
“You are in a sullen mood,” he then says. “Is that because you are not
looking forward to visiting your father this evening?”
“Who told you I was seeing my dad tonight?”
“Chloe.”
That’s someone else I need to have a word with. I wish people would
stop discussing me with Mungo.
“Yes, I am seeing him, and no, I’m not looking forward to it.”
“That is strange.”
“Why’s it strange?”
“Finn always seems happy to see you, and I presume that feeling is
mutual?”
“Of course, it is.”
“But seeing your father does not invoke a similar sense of happiness.
Why is that?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Complicated, or a subject you find difficult to talk about?”
“Just drop it, eh? I’d rather forget about it entirely for the next few
hours.”
“Understood.”
Once I’ve collected Finn from the classroom, we retrace our steps to the
car. Again, my son is full of beans for the entire journey and barely stops
talking. At home, he rushes upstairs to get changed, but not before asking if
I can find a programme about dinosaurs on the TV.
“I’m sure I can find something,” I call up the stairs after him.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
I kick my trainers off and wander through to the lounge. I’m in the
process of searching YouTube when Mungo steps into the doorway.
“Have you found a suitable programme for Finn?” he asks.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Curiosity is an admirable trait in a child and should be encouraged.”
“You’re giving me parenting tips now, are you?”
“No, I am merely confirming my opinion. Do you disagree that curiosity
is an admirable trait?”
I separate the question from the man asking it before formulating an
answer.
 “Remarkably, I agree with you for once. I think it’s great that Finn is
keen to learn.”
“Humans should never stop learning. Curiosity is the best antidote to the
poison of presumption.”
“That’s almost profound. Who said that?”
“I just did.”
“You made that up?”
“Yes.”
“Well, maybe you’re not as daft as you look.”
“Says you,” he retorts, utterly deadpan. “The man currently poisoning
himself with presumption.”
Finn bursts into the room before I can respond to Mungo’s accusation.
For my son’s sake, I swallow the agitation and return my attention to the
TV screen.
Having found a suitable dinosaur documentary series, I set up the first
episode while Finn gets comfortable on the sofa. Mungo joins him, but I’ve
noticed he rarely ever looks comfortable, choosing to sit bolt upright, knees
together, and hands precisely positioned on his thighs.
“Will you watch the dinosaur programme with us, Daddy?” Finn asks.
“Um, sure.”
Finn then shuffles to his left, his expectation that I sit next to him on the
sofa. As little as I want to sit next to Mungo, I flop down between them just
as the programme begins.
Over the ensuing hour, my son poses many questions. Most I can answer,
but whenever I stumble, Mungo steps in with a concise response to Finn’s
question. Each time it happens, I search Google to check the accuracy. He’s
right every time.
“Mungo is very clever, isn’t he, Daddy?” Finn remarks after I have to
defer for a fourth time.
“Hmm, yes,” I mumble. “He’s quite the know-it-all.”
“I do not know it all,” the man himself then interjects. “There are many
gaps in my knowledge.”
“For example?”
“Contemporary human culture.”
“So, you wouldn’t be much good in a pub quiz if a question related to
pop music or films?”
“That is correct.”
 “What about sport? You know much about football?”
“Are you referring to association football, where two teams of eleven
players compete to move a football into the opposing team’s goal?”
“That sounds a lot like the dictionary definition, and you don’t know
anything about football.”
“That would be correct.”
“Daddy loves football,” Finn pipes up. “But his team always lose.”
“Not always, mate. Just most of the time.”
“I heard Granddad tell Mummy that your team is shit.”
“Finn!” I splutter. “That’s a bad word.”
“Shit is a bad word?” Mungo then asks.
“Enough, okay. It’s a bad word so stop saying it … both of you.”
Fortunately, Finn is then distracted by a Pterodactyl on the screen. He
tries numerous times to get his mouth around the word before giving up and
calling it a flying dinosaur. It proves an ideal moment to start prepping
dinner, so I leave Finn and Mungo to the second episode.
Halfway through my dinner preparations, Chloe returns home. After
saying hello to Finn and Mungo, she enters the kitchen and heads straight
for the fridge.
“Tough day?” I ask as she snatches a bottle of wine from the shelf.
“No worse than usual. How was your day?”
“Same old, same old.”
Chloe steps away from the fridge and reaches up to grab a glass from the
cupboard. As she lifts her head, the spotlight above illuminates her cheeks.
It also highlights the smudged makeup around her eyes.
“Have you been crying?” I ask.
“Eh? No,” she replies, instinctively looking away from me.
I step over to my wife and cup her chin. “Look at me, Chloe.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she does.
“You have been crying. What’s up?”
“It’s nothing,” she gulps. “I had a row with Danny and … don’t worry
about it. I’ll be fine.”
“Is that boss of yours still giving you grief about leaving work at a
reasonable hour?”
“Something like that,” Chloe replies with a thin smile. “But I’m a big
girl, so don’t worry about it. Honestly, I’ll be fine after a glass of wine and a
shower.”
 My wife thanks me with a kiss on the cheek and then takes her glass of
wine upstairs. No matter what’s happened between us, I can’t simply switch
off the part of my brain that wants to protect Chloe. If her boss keeps
unfairly piling on the pressure, I might have a quiet word in his ear.
Once Chloe has showered, she returns to the kitchen in much better
spirits. As I serve up, she summons Finn and Mungo to the table, and we sit
down to eat. Again, our guest requested only vegetables and potatoes, so
that’s what he’s got. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the new dining
dynamic, but it does feel marginally less weird having Mungo at the table
than it did the first time.
As has always been the way, up until his mutism, Finn dominates the
conversation as he tells Chloe all about his dinosaur dream and the
subsequent facts he discovered while watching a TV programme on the
same subject. Maybe it’s Finn’s infectious enthusiasm, or maybe it’s the
wine, but Chloe’s eyes regain their sparkle.
Then, I notice the time. My shoulders slump.
“I suppose I’d better get going soon,” I sigh.
“You don’t have to go,” Chloe replies.
“I know, but I said I would.”
“Alright, but don’t rush your food. You get there when you get there.”
“Where are you going, Daddy?” Finn asks.
“To see Granddad Ron.”
If I’d said I was going to see Chloe’s dad, Finn would have asked to
come with me. However, such is his lack of a bond with my dad, his interest
ends before it even begins.
“After dinner,” Chloe then says to our son. “How about you show me this
dinosaur programme, and you can tell me everything you’ve learned.”
Finn agrees with great enthusiasm.
“And I,” Mungo says. “Will visit your father with you, Jake.”
“What?”
“Would you like me to repeat what I said?”
“No, I heard the first time, but I don’t remember inviting you.”
“You did not invite me, but you did agree to my monitoring your social
interactions.”
“Yes, but what are you hoping to learn from me attempting to fix my old
man’s laptop?”
 “I cannot predict what I will learn, but I am certain I will learn
something.”
“And how am I supposed to explain who you are, never mind why I’ve
dragged you along?”
“You could suggest I am a family friend.”
“Lie, you mean?”
“More a prediction than a lie.”
“More a delusion,” I scoff. “And I’d rather go on my own, thanks.”
“Why can’t Mungo go?” Finn then asks. “He’ll be lonely if I’m watching
dinosaurs with Mummy.”
“Err, I’m sure he won’t, mate.”
“Finn has a point,” Chloe then says. “And would it really do any harm if
Mungo tags along? Maybe it’ll encourage Ron to be a bit more civilised.”
“I don’t really …”
“Besides,” she forcibly interrupts, her eyes boring into me. “Finn wants
to tell me all about the dinosaurs, so I think it’d be good if there’s only the
two of us at home … don’t you?”
The penny drops. Chloe wants to test Finn’s mutism when Mungo isn’t
present.
Three faces then stare at me expectantly. I couldn’t give a shit about one
of them, but the other two prove a compelling combination.
“Fine,” I eventually sigh. “Mungo can come.”
 25
Ten minutes into the journey and Mungo hasn’t said a word. I’m not
inclined to start a conversation. We reach a set of traffic lights on red, and
I’m about to change the radio station when my phone beeps. Still stationary,
I quickly glance down at the screen to check who’s messaged me. It’s from
Chloe: Success! He’s chatting away! XX
On the one hand, I’m relieved beyond belief that Finn is at least talking
to one of his parents without any third-party interference, but that relief is
tinged with envy. It’s not logical, but I feel cheated that it was Chloe’s
actions that started all this, and yet she’s the one our son sees fit to break his
silence with.
“You appear perturbed,” Mungo comments from the passenger’s seat. “Is
there a problem?”
“Not really, no. Chloe just messaged to say Finn is talking to her.”
“That is good, is it not?”
“Yes, obviously.”
“But you are envious?”
My head snaps to the left. “What did you say?”
“I suggested that you are envious.”
“What … why on earth would you think that?”
“Am I wrong?”
“Don’t answer my question with one of your own. What makes you think
I’m envious?”
“As I have stated before, my expertise lies in human emotions. I can tell
what you are feeling even if you are unwilling to admit it yourself.”
“Or, you guessed and struck lucky. I could have probably drawn the same
assumption based on a few facts and a glum expression.”
“If you prefer to believe that, I understand.”
The traffic lights change, and I return my attention to the road.
“Why is your relationship with your father complicated?” Mungo then
asks.
“It just is.”
“I understand the word ‘complicated’ is frequently used to avoid a
truthful answer.”
 “Or, maybe it really is complicated, and I don’t have the energy to
explain it.”
“If you had no choice, could you explain it in one or two sentences?”
“Don’t know,” I shrug.
“Would you care to try?”
My first instinct is to say no, but my mind races back to the conversation
I had with Chloe this morning. She virtually pleaded with me to make some
effort with Mungo. I don’t believe it’ll do any good, but I’d rather be
proven right than admit I didn’t even try.
I puff a deep sigh and consider how I might simplify my relationship
with Dad.
“Alright, apart from Chloe and Finn, I don’t have any close family other
than my dad. So, I put up with his flaky behaviour because … because it’s
better to have a crappy dad than no dad at all.”
“By flaky, do you mean irresponsible and unreliable?”
“Exactly that,” I snort. “Both those words sum Ron Mason up to a tee.”
“I understand.”
Whether he truly understands or not, Mungo remains silent for the
remainder of the journey, only speaking again once I pull up outside Dad’s
house.
“We are here?”
“Yep.”
“You will introduce me as a family friend, correct?”
“I suppose so, but are you sure you want to come in?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll warn you now, my dad isn’t renowned for his tact, so don’t start
bleating if he offends you, okay?”
“I cannot be offended.”
“Everyone is capable of being offended.”
“Not everyone.”
“What about embarrassment? Do you ever get embarrassed?”
“No.”
“How about shame? Ever feel that?”
“No.”
“So, if I told you to strip naked and walk up and down the street, singing
Bohemian Rhapsody, you wouldn’t feel any negative emotions?”
“Public nudity is against the law, and I cannot sing.”
 “Humour me. Would you feel anything?”
“No, I would not.”
A thought occurs.
“Hold on a minute,” I say, eyes narrow. “Are you some kind of
sociopath?”
“No.”
“Have you been checked? It’d perfectly explain your oddness, don’t you
think?”
“I would strongly recommend you research the common traits of a
sociopath before jumping to any further conclusions.”
“Psychopath, then?”
“I refer to my previous answer.”
“So, that’s it? You’re just weirdly emotionless?”
“That would not be the term I would use, but I have always been
different, yes.”
Another thought then occurs. I once watched a dating show for people on
the spectrum, and there was a guy with acute Asperger’s Syndrome — he
also said he was different. If memory serves, that guy was highly intelligent
but lacked basic social skills and empathy. That tallies with Mungo’s
behaviour but also raises a question. I need to ask it.
“You said you’re an expert on emotions. If you’re so impervious to them,
how can you claim to be an expert?”
“You do not need to feel something to understand it.”
“Yes, you do.”
Mungo pauses for a moment and then takes a step towards me.
“Have you ever broken a bone?”
“Yes, when I was a kid. I fell off my bike.”
“Did you have an X-ray?”
“Yes.”
“Did you feel the wave of electromagnetic energy as it penetrated your
body?”
“Of course not.”
“And yet, you understood that the X-ray would determine if you had
broken a bone or not, correct?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Therefore, an inability to feel does not always mean an inability to
understand.”
 “Alright, smartarse. I’ll give you that one.”
Our conversation is a distraction but one I’m grateful for. I turn to face
Dad’s house and puff another sigh.
“Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Mungo follows me down the path to the front door. I ring the bell, and
after a brief wait, Dad opens the door.
“Alright, Boy,” he beams. Then, he notices Mungo.
“And who have we got here, then?”
“Dad, this is Mungo. He’s an old friend of, err … Chloe’s family. He’s
staying with us at the moment.”
“Does Santa know one of his elves is staying with you?” Dad remarks
with a snort of laughter. “Come on in.”
I glance at Mungo and mouth an apology. If his blank expression is
anything to go by, maybe he genuinely is incapable of taking offence. There
will be more offence to test in the coming minutes, for sure.
We follow Dad into the lounge, and he invites us to sit on the sofa. The
room is a homage to poorly-judged interior design choices, courtesy of
Melanie. My Dad and stepmother like shopping online for furniture, and
although each item in their lounge is nice enough in its own right,
collectively, it’s a mishmash of clashing colours and styles. It perfectly
mirrors Melanie’s fashion sense.
“How you been then, Boy?” Dad asks as he lowers himself into an
armchair that doesn’t match the sofa. “Keeping well?”
This would be the ideal opportunity for Dad to reference our telephone
conversation and my admission that I’ve a lot on my plate. He doesn’t.
“I’m alright,” I reply, flatly.
“You want a brew?”
“No, thanks. I’ve not long had dinner.”
“What about you, mate?” Dad asks, turning his attention to Mungo. “Can
I get you a brew?”
“What is a brew?”
“It’s a cup of tea.”
“I do not consume caffeinated beverages. Do you have bottled water?”
“This ain’t The Ritz, sunshine. If you want water, it’ll be from a tap.”
Before Mungo can respond, the lounge door swings open, and Melanie
appears.
“I’m off,” she says without casting so much as a glance in my direction.
 “Alright, babe,” Dad replies. “How long will you be?”
“An hour or so.”
Melanie then notices her husband has company.
“Alright, Jake,” she says, flatly.
“Hi, Mel.”
Her eyes linger on Mungo for a moment, but then she turns around and
closes the door.
“Where’s Mel off to?” I ask, with no real interest in knowing the answer.
“She’s got an appointment with her therapist.”
“I wouldn’t have thought Mel was the type to air her problems with a
therapist.”
“Not that kind of therapist,” Dad scoffs. “A beauty therapist. She’s
having her arsehole bleached.”
If I had accepted a cup of tea. I’d have just spat a mouthful across the
room.
“Sorry. Her what?”
“We like to make our own home movies … if you know what I mean,
and Mel wasn’t happy with the way her …”
“Whoa!” I interject, holding my hands up. “I get it, and I really don’t
want to hear about your antics in the bedroom or Mel’s … cosmetic
treatments.”
“You’re such a prude, Boy,” Dad chuckles. “I bet you and that wife of
yours only do it on high days and holidays, in the dark, eh?”
“Unlike you, I’d rather keep our sex life private, thanks.”
Dad shakes his head and then turns to Mungo. “So, what’s your story,
mate?”
“My story?”
“Yeah. Where are you from?”
“I am not from anywhere.”
“Everyone’s from somewhere.”
“Where are you from?” Mungo then asks, deftly avoiding Dad’s
question.
“I’m local. Born and bred in Aldervale, same as Jake.”
“Do you also work at TechWorld?”
“God, no,” Dad snorts. “I’m what you’d call an entrepreneur.”
I’d call him a shady job dodger, but that’s just my opinion.
 “An entrepreneur is a person who sets up a business and accepts financial
risks in the hope of profit, correct?”
“More or less, yeah. Bit of ducking, bit of diving, a lot of hiding to avoid
the tax man.” Dad’s expression then suddenly changes. “Wait, you ain’t a
grass, are you?”
“A grass?”
“He means an informant,” I confirm. “Someone who might report him to
the authorities.”
“Report him for what?”
“Forget it. Dad’s income and accounts are a mystery to all but himself,
and I’d rather not know about his dodgy dealings.”
“Nothing dodgy about what I do, Boy.”
“Hmm … I believe you, Dad. Thousands wouldn’t.”
He eyes Mungo suspiciously and, perhaps wisely, changes the subject by
asking how Finn is doing. I tell him what he wants to hear, and he replays
the same broken record about finding time to pop over and see his
grandson. He won’t.
“Anyway,” he then says. “Are you gonna have a look at this laptop for
me?”
Dad reaches down the side of his armchair and passes me a silver laptop
with the Apple logo prominently displayed in the centre.
“What exactly is the problem with it?” I ask.
“Bloody thing won’t even switch on.”
“Is it charged?”
“I dunno.”
“Where’s the power cable?”
“It didn’t come with one. What you see is what I bought.”
“And, had you considered that the battery is probably flat? If you’d taken
it to an Apple store, as I suggested, they’d have sold you one.”
“I’ve been busy.”
Knowing my dad as I do, I took the liberty of borrowing the power cable
for Chloe’s work laptop. I pull it out of my jacket pocket and plug it into a
port on the side of the device. Realising I’ll also require a power socket,
Dad points to one on the wall behind my left shoulder.
“Before I boot it up,” I comment as I flick the switch on the wall socket.
“Are you one hundred per cent certain this isn’t stolen?”
 “Why do you always think the worst of me?” he frowns. “Course it
ain’t.”
“I’m only checking, that’s all.”
“You should show your old dad a bit more respect, Boy. I asked you to
come over and help, not cast aspersions on my good name.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”
“Bleedin’ cheek,” he mutters under his breath.
“I only asked because all Apple devices have inbuilt security.”
“What kind of security?” Dad replies, shifting in his chair.
“If I turn this on and connect it to your Wi-Fi, it’ll act like a tracking
beacon if the previous owner hasn’t de-registered the device.”
“Can’t you switch it off?”
“If it’s still registered to that previous owner, no. I’ll be locked out.”
I check for the location of the power button.
“One sec,” Dad then coughs. “Let’s just leave it for now.”
“You don’t want me to turn it on?”
“Err, no. I’ll do what you said and take it to the Apple place … to be on
the safe side, yeah.”
“So, it could be stolen?”
“I never said that but you can’t be too careful, can you?”
“How much did you pay for it?”
“A bullseye.”
“You paid fifty quid for a laptop that’s probably worth ten times that
much, and it never crossed your mind it might be stolen?”
“The bloke said he was desperate and needed the cash.”
“I bet he did,” I snort. “For his next fix.”
Dad mutters something and then sucks on his vape. Now my services are
no longer required, I can’t see any reason to hang around. However, there is
one final option I’m willing to suggest.
“If you need a laptop, Dad, I can sort one out for you. I get staff discount
at work.”
“How much will that set me back?”
“However much you want to spend. Laptops start at a few hundred quid
and go up to several thousand.”
“And how much would your old man have to pay for one?”
“As I said, I get a ten per cent discount.”
 “Or you could nab one, couldn’t you? I’ll give you a bung if it’s half-
decent.”
“You want me to steal one?” I reply, incredulous.
“Can’t be that hard, can it? And besides, a big, tax-dodging company like
the one you work for can afford it.”
“Dad, I don’t think you’re in a position to question anyone’s tax affairs,
and even if TechWorld didn’t pay a penny in tax, I’m not a thief.”
“You bleedin’ are,” he snaps back. “Or, have you forgotten that little trip
to court when you were a nipper? Found guilty of shoplifting as an eleven-
year-old, weren’t you?”
I toss the laptop aside and stand up, fists clenched.
“That was twenty-odd years ago,” I snarl. “How dare you bring that up.”
“All I’m saying, Boy, is that you’ve got previous for being light-fingered.
That’s why I don’t understand why you’re getting your knickers in a twist
about snatching a bloody laptop.”
“I was eleven, Dad. A kid who knew no better.”
“Once a tea-leaf, always a tea-leaf.”
My patience snaps.
“For the record, do you know why I was caught shoplifting?”
He shrugs his shoulders and puffs a plume of vape smoke towards the
ceiling.
“I got caught stealing two tins of soup because we had no food in the flat,
and Mum was skint. Why do you think that was, eh, Dad?”
“I gave your mother money,” he replies, defensively.
“Yeah, a few times a year if she was lucky. The rest of the time, we had
to beg, borrow, and yes, steal to make ends meet.”
“She should have brought you up better. No mistake there.”
“And you shouldn't have fucked off and left a six-year-old with a woman
who could barely cope.”
“Oh, here we go again,” he groans. “Poor old Jake and his sob story. You
ain’t the only one who’s had a tough life, Boy. Difference is, we don’t all
bang on about it.”
I turn to Mungo. “We’re going.”
“What about my laptop?” Dad asks. “At least give it some thought, eh?”
Unwilling to even dignify his request with an answer, I storm across the
lounge and tug open the door. I don’t glance back until I’m halfway up the
garden path, and only then do I realise Mungo isn’t behind me. Torn
between continuing to the car or returning to see where he is, I do neither. A
good ten seconds pass before a short figure appears in the doorway. Mungo
then closes the front door behind him and joins me on the path.
“You are angry,” he says, stating the bloody obvious.
“Yes, I am.”
“We should sit in your motor vehicle until you have calmed down.”
“We’ll be here all night, then,” I huff before turning around and trudging
towards the car.
Once I’m in the driver’s seat, I slam my fist against the steering wheel. It
doesn’t help. The passenger’s door then opens, and Mungo gets in. He puts
his seatbelt on but doesn’t say a word. With my fists still tightly clenched,
perhaps he has a valid point about waiting a moment to calm down before I
drive anywhere.
We sit in silence and, every few moments, I glance to my right, towards
the front door of Dad’s house hoping he’ll step through it, wander over, and
apologise. I know I’m kidding myself — in his eyes, Ron Mason is never in
the wrong.
“Would a platitude help?” Mungo then asks.
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“I could touch your shoulder.”
“Eh?”
“I have noticed how humans touch a shoulder when offering comfort or
consolation.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay.”
“But you are not … okay.”
“I will be. By now, I should be used to my dad being a selfish prick.”
“You do appear to have a fractious relationship.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Your father suggested you conduct an illegal act. You were right to
denounce his suggestion.”
“I know, so why do I feel like the bad guy?”
Mungo doesn’t answer my question but sits silently, staring at the
dashboard. Only when I reach for the ignition key does he speak again.
“Your relationship with your father is not complicated,” he says. “It is
straightforward.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You are a good person, Jake. He is not.”
 “Bloody hell, Mungo. Is that a compliment?”
“It is a fact, not a compliment.”
“Well, thank you, anyway.”
“You are welcome.”
I draw a deep breath and puff it out. With one final glance towards Dad’s
house, I slip the gear lever into first and pull away.
We’re almost halfway home before either of us speaks again.
“Does your father own the house in which he lives?” Mungo asks.
“I think so, yes.”
“You have never lived there?”
“God, no. Why do you ask?”
“Because I am curious.”
“Is there something in particular that has sparked your curiosity and the
questions?”
“It is no more than a feeling.”
I don’t have the patience or energy to press him any further. He remains
silent until we turn into Norton Rise.
“I do have one other question,” he says.
“If I answer it, will you tell me why you want to know, or spin another
vague statement that doesn’t make any sense?”
“I want to know the answer to a question. That is all.”
I pull onto the driveway and kill the engine.
“Alright, Mungo. Let’s hear it.”
“I would like to know,” he says, almost earnestly. “How do you bleach an
anus?”
 26
Chloe once again woke me with a cup of coffee. She was still in
sympathy mode after I relayed what happened at Dad’s house last night. In
her view, I should wash my hands of the man. I was tempted to remind my
wife that she’s not in any position to judge wrongdoing. I thought it, but
didn’t say it, which constitutes progress, I suppose.
I took Finn to school, accompanied by Mungo, and then confirmed plans
with Rachel for later. Alfie has a dental check-up after school, so I’m
dropping Finn at her house at five o’clock. He was beyond excited at the
prospect of his first sleepover. If the circumstances were different, I’d be
excited by the prospect of having noisy sex with my wife all evening, but
they’re not. Finn might be away for the night, but with the trauma of our
last bedroom encounter lingering and a self-confessed curious guest
occupying the spare bedroom, the prospect of any kind of sexual activity in
the Mason household tonight is virtually nil.
I pull into the staff car park at the back of TechWorld and get out of the
car. Mungo is conducting research again today, although he was his usual
vague self when I asked what kind of research. He said it was to help with
my therapy, but no more. He’ll be back at the school gates at 3.10 pm,
though. I was tempted to see how Finn would react without Mungo on the
school run, but Chloe said I shouldn’t push him. Reluctantly, I agreed. So,
for at least one more day, I’m stuck with a chaperone if I want to hold a
conversation with my son.
I hurry up to the staffroom and put the kettle on. I’m mindlessly
shovelling coffee granules into a mug when Barry appears.
“Morning, Jake,” he says gruffly. “You got a sec?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Ash isn’t coming in today, so I need you to run the customer service
counter.”
“That’s not like Ash. He’s never off sick.”
“He’s not sick. His gran had a fall this morning, and he’s currently sitting
with her in A&E.”
“Oh, right.”
 It strikes me as a pretty weak reason to take the day off. There must be
other members of Ash’s family willing to sit in A&E.
“Is there anyone else available to help me out?” I ask.
“Nope. You’re on your own, I’m afraid.”
I’m about to complain, but Barry shoots me a look the second I open my
mouth.
“Remember that you’re still on probation, Jake,” he says. “This is your
chance to prove you’re as capable as you seem to think you are.”
Point made, Barry taps his wristwatch and suggests I drink my coffee on
the shop floor. He hurries away before I can argue my shift doesn’t start for
another ten minutes.
“Brilliant,” I mumble to myself.
I continue mumbling complaints all the way to the shop floor, but it does
no good. I relieve one of the other staff members from her temporary
position at the customer service counter and prepare for the worst.
The first hour is chaotic. If there’s one thing worse than dealing with
customer complaints, it’s dealing with a complainant after they’ve queued
for fifteen minutes. I can’t help but feel some resentment towards Ash’s
gran. Why couldn’t she have fallen over tomorrow, on my day off?
However, there is one consolation to being busy as my shift passes
quickly. Before I know it, it’s almost three o’clock, and I hand over my
duties to some other poor sod.
After hurrying across town to Belle Vue Infant School, I once again find
Mungo waiting for me at the gates.
“Thank Christ, this is the last day have to suffer strange looks from the
other parents,” I mutter as he follows me towards the classroom.
“The last day?”
“We agreed you could try your therapy for five days, which ends on
Sunday.”
“Indeed.”
“Although, I don’t see much point in waiting till Sunday. What exactly
have you achieved?”
“It is not what I have achieved, but what I need you to achieve.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“As I have already stated, you must clear the clouds of pessimism from
your mind so you can see the truth.”
“And how exactly am I supposed to clear these clouds?”
 “You should look to Finn as an example.”
“Finn?”
“A child’s mind has no boundaries. It is a vast space to explore without
fear or consequence.”
“Which is why it’s our job as parents to put boundaries in place.”
“There is a difference between rules and boundaries. Rules are societal
and imposed for the good of everyone, including the child. Boundaries are
set by the individual and, as humans age, they tend to limit those
boundaries.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I should act more like a child? Perhaps
I’ll find a teacher to scream at, and then shove a crayon up my nose.”
“You are being sarcastic?”
“Yes, Mungo. I am.”
“Let me reframe my point. When was the last time you absorbed new
information?”
“What do you mean?”
“When did you last learn?”
“I don’t know,” I groan. “I suppose a few weeks ago. I had to complete
some tedious health and safety course at work.”
“You talk about learning in such a negative context. Compare that to
Finn’s enthusiasm regarding prehistoric creatures. He was positively
enthused about learning whereas you are clearly not.”
“I’m not four. I already know what I need to know.”
“And that, Jake, is the gravest failing of any human — a closed mind.”
“Jesus. We’re going around in circles here, and I still don’t know what
you expect me to do about it.”
Mungo pauses and then tilts his head a fraction as if considering his
response. Eventually, it comes.
“What I want you to do about it now seems immaterial because your
neurosis is so deeply ingrained. I must expedite my research and adjust your
therapy accordingly. Time is short.”
“In what way, adjust it?”
“You appear to favour analogies, Jake, so I will explain accordingly.”
“Make it quick because Finn will be out soon.”
“Your mind is like a locked box. Rather than delicately unpicking the
padlock, as I hoped, I must adopt a more industrial approach. A
sledgehammer, if you will.”
 “That sounds … bloody awful.”
“It will be effective. That is all that matters.”
The door to Finn’s classroom suddenly opens, and a wave of excited,
chattering voices interrupts our conversation. In truth, it’s a relief. My brain
is already close to melting because of Mungo’s puzzling pep talk.
I collect my son and double-check with Rachel that’s she’s still happy to
host our son later. She responds positively, which is just as well as Finn
doesn’t stop talking about the sleepover all the way home. By the time I
unlock the front door, I’ve got a minute-by-minute account of their plans.
“You’d better go and get changed, mate. And Mummy left a bag on your
bed so you can pack your pyjamas and a toothbrush, okay?”
“Can Mungo help me pack?”
“Yes,” Mungo replies on my behalf.
Without a word from me, the two of them then head upstairs.
“Yeah, sure,” I mutter under my breath.
I squat down to untie the laces of my boots, and just as I’m about to slip
them off, the front door opens.
“Jesus, you scared me,” Chloe gasps, slapping a hand to her chest. “Why
are you lurking on the hallway floor?”
“I’m not lurking. I’m taking my boots off. More to the point, though,
what are you doing home?”
“I might have told Danny a small white lie. Said I had a migraine so he
let me leave early.”
I notice she’s got a carrier bag in her hand. Deja vu strikes.
“Is there a reason you wanted to leave early?” I ask.
“I couldn’t … it’s been a hellish week, that’s all.”
“It wasn’t that long ago that you insisted on staying late. Now, you’re
bunking off early.”
“They get more than their pound of flesh from me, Jake,” she says, a tad
defensively. “And, if they have a problem with me leaving an hour or two
early, tough.”
“Your career,” I shrug, my eyes still on the carrier bag.
“Yes, it is, and don’t panic. I’m not planning to seduce you with craft
beer and Beef Wellington again — it’s just something I picked up for
dinner.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I’ll cook tonight if you’re happy dropping Finn off?”
 “Suits me.”
“How is he?”
“He’s incredibly excited about his sleepover.”
“And our guest?”
“Helping Finn pack his bag. I’m not good enough, apparently.”
Chloe kicks her shoes off and places a hand on my shoulder. “He’s only
got one daddy, and no one could do a better job than you.”
Now she’s no longer talking about work my wife’s voice has lost its
frosty undercurrent.
“Thank you,” I reply with a half-smile. “So, what’s for dinner?”
“We’ve got steak, and I bought Mungo a vegan three-bean casserole.”
“Well, if that doesn’t make him leave, nothing will.”
Chloe chuckles and then heads to the kitchen to unpack the groceries.
An hour later, I’m putting my boots back on as Finn double-checks he’s
got everything, this time under Chloe’s supervision.
“Why have you packed a torch, sweetie?” she asks.
“In case we go hunting.”
“Ohh, I see. And where exactly are you hoping to hunt, and what for?”
“In Alfie’s garden. He’s got badgers and foxes and … and he saw a lion
once.”
“Really? I didn’t know they had lions roaming around in Westfield
Gardens. I’ll need to be extra careful if I ever take you over there.”
“It’s okay, Mummy. Mungo thinks it was probably a cat, although the
lion is part of the cat family.”
“That’s right,” Chloe gushes. “You are clever.”
“You ready to go then, mate?” I ask, snatching my car keys from the
hallway table.
Before Finn can answer, and right on cue, Mungo shuffles down the
stairs.
“I will come with you,” he announces, much to Finn’s delight.
“Yeah, whatever,” I sigh.
Chloe gives Finn a goodbye hug and then stands in the doorway as we
get into the car —Finn and Mungo both choosing the back seat.
It’s only a short drive to Westfield Gardens, but it’s not a part of town I’m
familiar with, as it’s a sprawling development of houses built in recent
years. The sat nav guides us through a maze of identical roads until we
reach Rachel’s home — a semi-detached house with a garage at the side and
a small area of lawn to the front. I park up behind her car and switch off the
engine.
“Right, promise me you’ll be on your best behaviour,” I say to Finn over
my left shoulder.
“I promise, Daddy.”
“Good boy. Grab your bag, then.”
Finn opens his door, as does Mungo.
“Where are you going?” I ask. “I’m only dropping him off.”
“It is important I enter the house with you.”
“Why?”
“We can either sit here and discuss it or complete the task. Which would
you rather?”
I give the question a second’s thought, but no more.
“Fine, but I don’t want you saying anything weird to Rachel,
understood?”
“Understood.”
The three of us then wander up the path towards the front door. It opens
before we get there, with Alfie’s tiny silhouette framed in the doorway. His
mother then steps up behind him.
“Hi, Finn, Jake.”
“Evening, Rachel.”
“This is Mungo,” Finn announces as we reach the doormat. “He’s my
other friend.”
“Evening, Mungo,” Rachel says, hesitantly.
“Hello,” he replies flatly.
“He’s a family friend,” I confirm with an apologetic grimace.
Rachel nods and then invites us into the hallway. I get a nanosecond to
say goodbye to Finn before he and Alfie scamper up the stairs.
“May I use your bathroom?” Mungo then asks. “I have the sudden urge
to urinate.”
“Um, sure. Use the one upstairs. I haven’t had a chance to clean the
downstairs cloakroom, and Alfie hasn’t learned how to aim yet.”
“Understood. Where upstairs is it?”
“Turn left at the top, and it’s the door straight ahead.”
Mungo nods and then moves up the stairs like he’s clutching a five-
pound note between his buttocks. Rachel watches him for a second and then
invites me to wait in the kitchen.
 “Glass of wine?” she asks while heading straight for the fridge. “Or I
might have a beer in here somewhere.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Chloe is making dinner, so I can’t hang around long,
unfortunately.”
“Oh, okay.”
Rachel then stands in front of the fridge, nervously tapping the neck of a
wine bottle.
“How are things at home … if you don’t mind me asking?”
I’m slightly taken aback by her question, but then again, Rachel saw
first-hand how bad things are when she dropped Finn back home last week.
“Still not great, but better than they were.”
“It’s not easy, is it?”
“What isn’t?”
“Marriage.”
“Not always, no.”
“Sadly, mine broke down three years ago.”
Without thought or reason, my eyes flick towards her left hand, still
cradling the bottle of wine.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I reply, trying to sound sincere. “How long were
you married for?”
“Only four years. One before Alfie came along and three after.”
“Does he get to see his dad often?”
“No, but it’s complicated. Our marriage didn’t just end — it shattered
into a million pieces, and the divorce was long-winded and painful. I
wouldn’t have put my worst enemy through what I endured.”
“That bad, eh?” I wince.
“Worse,” she snorts. “Whatever problems you’re experiencing, I doubt
they come close to mine.”
I don’t want to ask, but I can’t silence the voice in the back of my head,
demanding to know what happened.
“Um, it’s none of my business, but …”
“It’s fine. Weirdly, I find it quite cathartic telling people about how my
marriage fell apart. It’s a reminder that I did the right thing for Alfie and for
me.”
Rachel pours herself a large glass of wine and then takes a sip.
“My youngest sister broke up with her boyfriend, so I said she could use
our spare bedroom while looking for somewhere permanent to live. My
husband seemed strangely enthusiastic about the idea, but I thought he was
being supportive — big mistake.”
“Oh?”
“He left his laptop at home one day, which is unlike him as he needs it
for work. Anyway, I couldn’t find my phone and needed to complete the
online grocery order. I didn’t see any problem with using his laptop, and,
my ex being such a creature of habit, he used Alfie’s date of birth as his
password pin. After I finished shopping and shut down the browser, a pop-
up notification appeared, confirming that three new files had been
automatically uploaded to a folder in a cloud storage account.”
“Right.”
“The weird thing was the name of that folder, Laura — my sister’s name.
I don’t know what made me click that notification, but the folder opened up
to reveal hundreds of thumbnail images. I might have stopped snooping
there and then, if I hadn’t recognised my sister’s face in the first of those
thumbnails.”
“Your ex was taking photos of your sister? Bit weird.”
“Nope, not photos.”
Rachel takes a gulp of wine before continuing.
“It transpired that my darling husband had hidden a camera in the spare
bedroom.”
“Shit,” I hiss.
“I might have said something a bit stronger, but that’s only to be expected
when you discover your husband has hundreds of illicit videos of your
sister getting undressed and wandering around naked … not to mention a
few other habits a single woman might get up to in the privacy of her own
bedroom.”
“Christ almighty,” I gasp, shaking my head. “That’s awful. And, on the
scale of ways a marriage might fail, you win by a landslide.”
“Thanks,” she sniggers. “It’s taken a long time to feel comfortable telling
anyone that story, never mind someone I don’t know particularly well, but I
thought you needed to hear it.”
“Me? Why?”
“Because, Jake, whatever problems you’re experiencing, I’d bet they pale
in comparison to what I went through. You and Chloe seem like decent
people, and it’s always worth keeping your problems in perspective,
particularly when there’s a child’s happiness at stake.”
 “I agree,” comes a voice from across the kitchen.
We both turn to the location of the voice. Mungo is standing in the
doorway.
“I hope you weren’t eavesdropping,” I say. “That was a private
conversation.”
“I only heard the last sentence,” Mungo replies. “Are we departing
now?”
I flash Rachel a sympathy-laced smile, thank her for the advice, and
confirm I’m only a phone call away if she has any problems with Finn. She
then guides me back through the hallway to the front door. Mungo says a
curt goodbye, then waddles to the car and gets in.
“Sorry about him,” I say. “He’s … um, not the full ticket.”
“You mean, he’s …”
“Yes, but we don’t like to talk about it. He’s returning home soon, so you
probably won’t see him again.”
Rachel looks over my shoulder towards the car.
“You know, I did overhear Finn talking to Alfie about him. I couldn’t
hear that well, but his name came up a few times.”
“Yeah, for reasons I don’t quite understand, my son seems to have taken
a shine to Mungo.”
“He reminds me of someone,” she says, her gaze fixed on the car.
“My wife said the same thing. A character from a movie by chance?”
“No, a character from a story book my nan used to read to me when I was
little.”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“I only remember it because the story was, looking back, quite dark for a
kids’ book. Nan wouldn’t let me read it on my own.”
Rachel maintains her silent stare for a few seconds longer, and then
suddenly her trance breaks. “Sorry, Jake. I’d better let you get going.”
I thank her again and hurry to the car. Strangely, as I pull away from the
driveway, Rachel remains in the doorway.
“Well, that was interesting,” I mutter under my breath.
“Yes, it was,” Mungo responds. “Very interesting indeed.”
 27
I gulp the last of the coffee and place the cup on the bedside table. It’s
half-nine, and I’m taking full advantage of not having a small child
charging around the house at stupid o’clock. I can’t remember the last time
I had a proper lie-in on a Saturday morning. My wife, however, has been up
for a while.
Chloe returns from the bathroom in just a robe.
“How was the coffee?” she asks.
“Really good, ta, but you didn’t have to go and buy coffee.”
“I had nothing better to do, and I needed an espresso shot.”
Chloe then slips out of her robe and hangs it on a hook on the bedroom
door. Despite her fantastic body, she hasn’t always been so comfortable
parading around naked in front of me. For at least a year after we moved in
together, Chloe kept a nightshirt or dressing gown by the side of the bed to
avoid walking naked to the bathroom. She blamed her insecurities on a
Catholic upbringing and a previous boyfriend’s cruel taunts about her
figure.
Eventually, my constant cajoling boosted her self-esteem enough that the
trips to the bathroom no longer involved a nightshirt or dressing gown. How
was I to know that in the years to come, another man would get to enjoy
Chloe’s naked body at close quarters?
My resentment re-engaged, I kick back the duvet and head for the
bathroom.
As I stand in the shower, I attempt to dampen my negativity by reflecting
on the conversation in Rachel’s kitchen yesterday. What Rachel went
through must have been awful, but how do her woes compare to mine? Her
ex was patently a pervert, but I wonder what her reaction would have been
if she’d discovered him in bed with her younger sister. On the scale of
marital sins, there can’t be any greater than cheating, surely? Rachel has no
clue what Chloe did, and I wonder if her advice might have been different if
she knew. Would she have suggested I follow her example and instigate a
divorce? I think most people would, but here I am, still – for now.
I get dressed and head downstairs, where Mungo and Chloe are chatting
in the kitchen. The conversation abruptly ends when I enter.
 “Um, Mungo was about to head out,” Chloe says, somewhat sheepishly.
“You just caught him.”
“Were you two talking about me?”
My wife doesn’t answer, but our guest does.
“Yes.”
I’m about to ask what specifically they were discussing, but there’s no
point. I’m struggling to care, and it’s unlikely I’ll get a straight answer from
either of them.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I huff while grabbing a cereal bowl from the
cupboard.
“What are your plans today?” Mungo then asks.
I glance at Chloe.
“I’ll pick Finn up,” she confirms. “Rachel said noon, right?”
I nod.
“Is there a match this afternoon?”
“Yeah, there is.”
“I presume you’re going?”
“Yep.”
“What is the match?” Mungo asks.
“Football,” Chloe replies. “Jake is a lifelong fan of our local club,
Aldervale United.”
“And what time does this match start?”
I stop pouring cereal and throw a glare across the kitchen. “No way,
Mungo. You’re not coming with me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s the only time I get to focus on something even shittier than
my own life.”
“I do not understand. You are a fan of a pastime that invokes negative
emotions?”
“I don’t get it either,” Chloe sighs. “He leaves the house in a good mood
and comes home with a face like thunder after most games.”
“Interesting,” Mungo muses. “I must attend this match.”
“Did you hear me? I said, no.”
“Is it a public event?”
“Anyone can go,” Chloe replies. “I don’t think the ground is ever more
than a quarter full.”
I shoot off another glare, this time in my wife’s direction.
 “What is this?” I snap. “When did you two form a tag team?”
“We are both working in your best interests, Jake,” Mungo says. “And, as
you agreed, I have until tomorrow to demonstrate my methods are
effective.”
“What’s that got to do with watching a football match?”
“It is all part of understanding how your mind works.”
Points made, Chloe and Mungo both stare at me — one expectantly, the
other like he’s holding in a particularly noxious fart.
“I said no,” I repeat, although with slightly less conviction than the first
time.
Several hours and many cross words later, I’m in the hallway, buttoning
up my warmest overcoat. Mungo plods down the stairs.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I grumble. “Seven times I said
no. Seven bloody times.”
“But you made the right decision in the end.”
“That remains to be seen. Why aren’t you wearing a coat?”
“I do not require a coat.”
“Suit yourself,” I shrug. “But don’t you dare complain you’re cold,
alright.”
I have yet to indoctrinate Finn into the cult of Aldervale United, but I did
try converting Chloe early in our relationship. She also chose inappropriate
clothing, and when she wasn’t complaining about the catering, the
uncomfortable seat, or the toilet facilities, I had to endure her teeth
chattering for the entire game. We agreed never to put one another through
the ordeal again. We also lost 4–0 that day.
I’m about to put on a pair of gloves when my phone beeps with a
message. It’s from Rick, asking if I want to meet in the clubhouse for a beer
before the game. I reply, telling him I probably won’t have time, but I might
pop into The White Horse afterwards.
“You ready, then?” I ask Mungo.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you want to do this? It’ll be cold, and we’ll probably lose.”
“I am sure.”
My shoulders slump as I finally concede the inevitable — I’ll have
company on the terraces of Gipton Park this afternoon.
We leave the house and walk in silence for the first few minutes; Mungo
a few steps behind me but keeping up with my brisk pace. Alas, the silence
doesn’t last.
“How long have you supported this team?”
“As long as I can remember, really. My granddad took me to my first
game when I was little.”
“What is your granddad’s name?”
“His name was Thomas Spalding.”
“He is deceased?”
“Sadly, he passed away when I was a teenager.”
“You were close?”
“Very. Granddad was the only adult I could rely on for most of my
childhood.”
“I see.”
Keen to change the subject, I pose a question of my own.
“What about you? Ever been to a football match before?”
“Never.”
“Do you support a team?”
“That is an illogical question. I just told you I have never attended a
football match.”
“How is it illogical?”
“I do not understand. Supporting a particular football team must surely
involve attending their matches, correct?”
“All you need to know is that there are two types of football fan: glory-
hunting plastic fans who follow their team from an armchair, and proper
fans like me who attend every home game and support their club through
thick and thin … but mostly thin in the case of Aldervale.”
“They are not a successful club?”
“Depends on your definition of success. We won ‘Pie of The Year’ three
seasons ago.”
“That does not sound like a notable accolade in sporting terms.”
“That’s because it’s not,” I snort. “But, to paraphrase one of our most
popular terrace chants — we’re shit, and we know we are.”
We reach the ground and approach the first turnstile. We each hand over
a twenty-pound note to the sullen turnstile operator and then make our way
to the South Stand. It’s not where I usually sit, but I’d rather avoid
questions about my companion.
“Are there protocols for supporting a football team?” Mungo asks as we
enter the walkway that runs under the stand.
 “Nope. Just behave like everyone else, and you’ll be fine.”
“Like everyone else?”
“Yeah, the other fans. Cheer when they cheer. Boo when they boo.”
“Understood.”
We take our seats just as the players arrive at the head of the tunnel. Our
club anthem has always been a jaunty version of Midnight in Moscow,
although no one seems to know why. The PA announcer does his best to gee
up the lacklustre crowd as the music begins and the players run out onto the
pitch.
Everyone except Mungo stands up and claps. It takes a few seconds, but
he finally follows my advice and stands to applaud the players, albeit in his
own mechanical style.
“You do understand the rules of football, right?” I ask while I can’t be
overheard. “I don’t want you asking any stupid questions, particularly about
the offside rule.”
“I studied the rules this morning.”
“Good.”
We sit back down and the match kicks off.
“Which team is Aldervale United,” Mungo asks within a few seconds.
“In the red and blue kit. The team in white are Barnet.”
“Understood.”
For the first ten minutes, Aldervale take the game to our opponents
without registering a shot on target. Then, one of the Barnet midfielders
picks up the ball on the right wing, just in front of the South Stand, and
beats two of our players. Our left back makes a clumsy but effective tackle
and wins the ball. The Barnet player duly collapses to the ground as if a
sniper had put a bullet between his eyes, and the referee blows for a free
kick, booking our left back in the process. As one, almost every fan in the
South Stand yells an objection, including me.
“Bullshit, ref!” I scream. “He’s conned you!”
The chorus of abuse and boos falls upon deaf ears, and the referee trots
away while the Barnet midfielder appears no worse for wear after his near-
death experience.
“Cheat! Cheat! Cheat!” comes the chant from everyone around us.
To add insult to injury, Barnet score the softest of goals from the resulting
free kick. Completely unmarked, their centre forward ghosts into the
penalty area and heads the ball past our near-static keeper. Fourteen minutes
on the clock, and we’re already a goal down.
“I am confused,” Mungo remarks once the booing subsides. “The role of
the defence is to prevent the opposition from scoring, is it not?”
“Yes, obviously.”
“And, yet, the Aldervale United defenders made no attempt to prevent
the opposition from scoring. Why not?”
A fat, middle-aged bloke a few rows in front of us stands up and
promptly answers Mungo’s question more succinctly than I ever could.
“You’re all fucking useless!” he yells at our players as they amble back
into position.
“He’s not wrong,” I mumble to Mungo. “And our manager isn’t much
better.”
“As an aside,” he replies. “Is it customary to shout profanities at a
football match?”
“Pretty much.”
“I see. What about the negative emotions? Are they also customary?”
“Our team is crap, our ground is falling apart, and our board of directors
are incompetent. I’d say Aldervale fans have every reason to be pissed off.”
“Interesting,” he muses.
The rest of the half proves a dull affair, with Barnet happy to sit back on
their lead and defend. Our attack is so toothless it’s not the most
challenging task. If there’s any consolation, at least we don’t concede
another goal.
The half-time whistle prompts another round of boos as the fans leave
their seats in search of refreshments. We follow the pack back through the
walkway to a tea hut where Mungo turns his nose up at a cup of Bovril,
instead requesting a bottle of water. We then stand and silently drink our
beverages while music blasts from a PA speaker above our heads.
I take a quick trip to the gents, and then, on the way back to our seats, I
offer Mungo a lifeline.
“I told you this wouldn’t be much fun, so feel free to leave if you want.”
“Your assessment is correct — this is not fun. It is, however, an
intriguing experience.”
“Not a word I’d use. What’s so intriguing about it?”
“Primarily, the humans who have gathered to watch the football match.
The vitriolic nature of the abuse they shout at the players is unlike anything
I have witnessed before.”
“They pay good money and expect the players to at least make an effort.”
“That is understandable, but the use of profanities and abusive language
is treated with such indifference. There is scant regard for societal norms.”
“That’s probably true. For some people, me included, it’s our only
opportunity to properly vent.”
“It is a cathartic experience?”
“A what?”
“Cathartic: psychological relief through the open expression of strong
emotions.”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Interesting. I would like to understand your experience.”
“Well, all you have to do is follow a shit football team for the next
twenty-five years. Failing that, watch Aldervale for the next forty-five
minutes.”
Right on cue, the players stream back onto the pitch. The PA announcer
doesn’t even attempt to rouse the crowd, leaving it to the minority of
deluded souls who see fit to applaud.
The second half gets underway in almost the same vein as the first.
Aldervale are on the offensive, but the midfield and the forwards are clearly
reading from a different playbook. Passes are misdirected or overhit, and
spaces remain unfilled. At best, it’s disorganised. At worst, it’s almost
comical. Then, just as the crowd begins to turn, our left-back punts a
hopeful ball into the Barnet box, and their keeper flaps at it. Almost in slow
motion, our striker realises he’s only six yards from an empty net with the
ball at his feet. He pokes out a leg, scuffing his shot, but the ball trickles
over the line.
Cue uproar.
“Get in!” I yell, jumping out of my seat and punching the air.
All around me, the Aldervale fans are cheering and celebrating. Even
Mungo is on his feet, politely applauding the goal.
“We’re back in the game,” I shout in his ear.
“I gathered,” he replies.
Once the mayhem dies down, Barnet restart the match and push forward
in numbers, hoping to quickly re-establish their lead. Our defence holds
firm, and we even manage a few half-decent attempts on the counterattack.
Then, a ball sails over the top of our midfield and a Barnet player races onto
it. Fortunately, our captain and star player, Corey Cooper, gives chase and
puts in the perfect last-minute tackle, sending the ball into touch.
“Brilliant tackle!” the fat middle-aged man in front of us yells.
It was a brilliant tackle, but Cooper is now rolling around on the deck,
clutching his right knee and clearly in pain. This does not bode well. Not
only is Corey Cooper our best player, but there’s a strong rumour that West
Brom are scouting our captain, and a big-money transfer might be on the
cards.
The ref stops the match, and our physio team dart onto the pitch. A
concerned hush falls across Gipton Park as the home fans wait to see how
badly our captain is injured.
As seconds turn to minutes, Mungo suddenly gets to his feet. I presume
he’s just taking a moment to relieve the numbness in his buttocks, but then
he draws in a deep breath.
“Get up, you idle wanker,” he yells at the top of his voice.
Much like when our goal went in, time stands still momentarily. Then, a
sea of faces turn in our direction, each one contorted with an angry scowl.
For reasons I cannot comprehend, Mungo just called our star player an idle
wanker while the poor guy receives treatment for a potentially career-
ending injury.
“Sit down, you gobby little prick,” the fat man yells.
Mungo slowly retakes his seat as a stream of insults fly in from every
direction. The verbal abuse continues until everyone notices Corey Cooper
clambering back to his feet. The fact that he can hobble off the pitch is a
good sign from an Aldervale perspective, but selfishly, I’m relieved the
attention isn’t on us. I grab Mungo’s arm.
“Come on,” I snap. “We’re leaving.”
“But there are still nine minutes to play.”
“Or nine minutes until we get our heads kicked in. We’ll watch the last
few minutes from the West Stand.”
I drag Mungo down the steps towards the exit, serenaded by some of the
more vocal fans. I can only assume they think we’re rogue Barnet
supporters, and they’re not shy in sharing their disdain.
Finally, we reach the relative calm and safety of the walkway beneath the
stand.
“What. The. Fuck. Was. That?” I hiss, glaring down at my potty-mouthed
companion.
 “Can you clarify your question?”
“With pleasure. What on earth possessed you to stand up and call our
captain an idle wanker?”
“Did I use the wrong pejorative?”
“The wrong what?”
“Would tosser or prick have been a better choice? I heard so many
industrial terms this afternoon I was unsure which one would be most
appropriate.”
“You don’t yell abuse at our own players, Mungo.”
“Other supporters did. Many times.”
“Well, yes, but … but that’s different.”
“You told me to behave like the other fans. At that moment, I took your
advice.”
“I didn’t mean literally insult the players for no reason, particularly when
they’re lying on the pitch injured.”
“You should have been clearer.”
“That much we can agree on.”
I roll my eyes and continue along the walkway. We then find a space
behind a low gate at the corner of the West Stand. It’s not the ideal vantage
point, but it’ll do for the last remaining minutes.
Those minutes pass slowly but eventually the clock on the digital
scoreboard confirms we’re into the last sixty seconds of the match. A 1–1
draw isn’t a bad result, and I look towards the ref in the hope he’s about to
blow his whistle. He does, but only to penalise one of our players for a foul.
While half the Aldervale team stand and protest, Barnet quickly take the
free-kick, passing the ball forward to their striker. He waltzes into our
penalty area, unmarked, and calmly slots the ball past our onrushing keeper.
The referee then blows his whistle for the final time.
Another defeat.
“What an absolute bloody farce,” I groan.
“As Chloe’s father suggested,” Mungo responds, flatly. “Your team is,
indeed, shit.”
 28
A flash of lightning streaks across the dark sky as we hurry away from
Gipton Park. It’s followed a few seconds later by an ominous rumble of
thunder.
“That’d just about put the tin lid on the afternoon,” I comment as we
cross the street. “Being hit by lightning.”
“Statistics vary,” Mungo replies. “But the chances of you being struck by
lightning are in the region of three-hundred thousand to one. The chances of
you being hit by a motor vehicle and dying due to your injuries, however,
are sixteen-thousand to one.”
“With the run of bad luck I’ve had this year, it wouldn’t surprise me if I
was hit by lightning and then fell under a passing bus.”
“The chance of that happening is so infinitesimally small, it is not worthy
of calculation.”
“Never say never, Mungo. As I said, bad luck.”
“There is no such thing as bad luck.”
“As an Aldervale fan, I’m inclined to disagree with you. For most of the
club’s history, we’ve been blighted by bad luck.”
“What about bad management?”
“Yeah, that too.”
“If the club you support are so unsuccessful, why do you continue to
attend matches? It seems highly illogical to invest your time and financial
resources on such a lost cause.”
“Of all the questions you’ve asked me, Mungo, that’s the only one I’d
class as ‘good’.”
“And the answer?”
The question might be good, but it’s not original. Whenever I mention to
anyone that I’m an Aldervale fan, they tend to look at me with a mixture of
confusion and sympathy. Some, who know me well, will ask why.
“Habit,” I venture.
“I would classify it as a negative habit. Why not break it?”
I give Mungo’s question a moment’s thought.
“My granddad, I suppose.”
“Explain.”
 “He was an Aldervale fan his entire life. I don’t recall him ever missing a
home match, even when we were relegated, and the club was on the verge
of bankruptcy.”
“You maintain your support because your granddad did?”
“I’ve never really thought about it, but yeah, I suppose I do. He never
gave up on the club, and I feel somehow obligated to keep up his legacy.”
“A legacy born of hope rather than realism, would you not agree?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“An interesting admission.”
“Is it? Why?”
“You have just admitted that when the motivation is strong enough, you
are willing to foster hope over pessimism.”
“I never said that,” I protest. “Just because I turn up at Gipton Park every
home game doesn’t mean I expect the team to be any less shit than the week
before. Today being a prime example.”
“You are disappointed by the result today?”
“Of course. We should have got a draw, at least.”
As the rain begins to fall, Mungo poses yet another question.
“You said that pessimists are rarely disappointed, did you not?”
“Err, yeah.”
“And yet, you claim to be disappointed by the result of the football
match. The only logical conclusion I can draw is that you, Jake Mason, are
not the pessimist you think you are.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Hold on a …”
Mungo walks on at a steady pace as fat raindrops begin pummelling the
pavement. I hurry after him and catch up just as The White Horse comes
into view. I was in two minds about stopping for a pint, but with Mungo’s
question still rattling around in my head, coupled with the prospect of a
soaking, a quick pint might be in order.
“We’re stopping at the pub,” I shout, the rain falling so hard it’s almost
impossible to be heard.
“I concur.”
Damp, but not as drenched as we would have been if we’d continued on,
we bustle into the bar of The White Horse. I order a pint and a bottle of
water, and then we grab a table. I’m keen to continue our conversation.
“About what you said a minute ago.”
“I will not continue that topic of conversation.”
 “Why not?”
“Because you will only seek to undermine my statement. If you
genuinely want to change your thinking, you must give sufficient thought to
what we discussed on the way here.”
My mouth opens, but my brain refuses to engage. It’s not that I’m
inclined to follow Mungo’s instructions, but neither can I unpick his logic. I
decide to let it go and throw an unrelated question across the table.
“What did you think of your first-ever football match, then?”
“I did not find the football interesting, but the behaviour of the massed
humans cemented my opinion of them.”
“What opinion?”
“That even after many millennia of evolution, humans are still
vociferously tribal and prone to violent outbursts. In some ways, the
average human is no more emotionally sophisticated than the homo sapiens
who walked the Earth three-hundred-thousand years ago.”
“Are you seriously suggesting we’re no more civilised than
Neanderthals?”
“Humans are not descended from Neanderthals — they’re a distinctly
separate species. And I did stress that humans today are in some way as
emotionally unsophisticated as their earliest counterparts. I did not,
however, suggest they possess similar levels of civility. For all the violence
in the world, most humans now refrain from killing one another over a petty
disagreement.”
“Progress, eh?” I snort.
Mungo doesn’t respond.
“Jake,” a voice then calls out.
I look towards the main door, where Rick is brushing rainwater from his
coat. I wave back, and he crosses the room to our table.
“Alright?” he says with a slight sigh.
“Need you ask?” I reply. “Another bloody defeat.”
“Surely that’s the end for our manager. How he’s still in a job is beyond
me.”
“Don’t get me started on him.”
Rick then looks down at Mungo.
“Sorry,” I say. “This is Mungo. An old family friend.”
“How are you doing?” Rick asks.
“How am I doing what?”
 “Eh … no, I mean …”
Mungo then stands up and thrusts out a hand. Rick tentatively accepts the
handshake, but it becomes awkward after a few seconds, with Mungo
seemingly unwilling to release his grip.
“Can I get you a pint?” I interject, getting to my feet.
Mungo finally ends the handshake, and I guide Rick over to the bar. After
ordering a pint, I explain Mungo’s strange habit of taking every statement
literally.
“Oh, right,” Rick chuckles. “I thought he was taking the piss.”
“No, he’s just a little odd. You get used to it.”
“Why’s he here with you? Did you take him to the match?”
“I did.”
“Poor bugger.”
Rick then asks if he can join us. As Mungo is unlikely to have a view on
the woeful performance of the Aldervale players, I invite him to our table.
I retake my seat opposite Mungo, and Rick sits next to me. He then asks
Mungo a question.
“Jake tells me you went with him to watch The Vale this afternoon. What
did you think?”
“What did I think?”
“Yeah, about the match.”
“I thought it was an unremarkable experience.”
“You’re not wrong,” Rick sniggers. “But I’d put it a bit more bluntly. We
were bloody hopeless all over the park.”
“The ref didn’t help either,” I add. “Honestly, we’ve had some shockers
in the past, but that idiot was the worst.”
“True, but you can’t blame the ref for our tactics. It makes you wonder
what the hell they do in training.”
“Based upon today’s so-called performance, not a lot. As for our
manager, he’s clueless during the game — no change of formation or
tactics, and he only brings on the subs when it’s too late.”
“Yeah, you should see what some are saying about him on the fans’
forum.”
Rick reaches into his pocket and pulls out a phone. After a swipe and a
few taps, he slides it across the table for me to look. I read through a few
dozen comments, ranging from disappointed and disgruntled to downright
spiteful.
 “I get why they’re pissed, but bloody hell.”
“Yeah, well, you take the job, you’ve got to be big enough to take the
criticism.”
“I know, but one or two of these comments are a bit near the knuckle.”
I spin the phone round and tap the screen, pointing to a particularly nasty
comment.
“It’s a bit much, don’t you think?”
The comment suggests that if our manager’s performance in the bedroom
is as inept as his performance in the dugout, his wife is probably desperate
for a good seeing to. A few other fans have added their views, most of
which are equally unpalatable.
Rick reads the comments and then laughs out loud.
“Okay, some are a bit ripe,” he says. “But you’ve got to admit a few are
quite funny.”
“Maybe, but … I don’t know. It seems wrong, dragging the guy’s wife
into it.”
“She’s a former model and quite a looker, mate. I’d happily drag her …
into the bedroom.”
I force a snort of laughter out of politeness, but Rick’s comment wasn’t
funny. Moving the conversation on, I ask about the girl he hooked up with
last Saturday – Amber.
“You were getting on like a house on fire when I left. What happened?”
“Not much,” Rick shrugs. “I thought my luck was in when she asked me
back to her place, but when we got there, she passed out on the sofa. She
obviously couldn’t handle her drink, so I left her there and walked home.”
“You didn’t get her number?”
“Nah, but I don’t think she was up for anything serious, anyway.”
Rick then turns the conversation back to football, asking if I fancy
joining him on the trip to Solihull next Saturday. After our last away day,
I’m not keen, but I don’t get a chance to answer.
“Jake cannot accompany you to Solihull,” Mungo says, breaking the
silence he’s maintained since Rick joined us.
“Err, excuse me,” I snap back at him. “I think I’ll decide my plans for
next weekend, thanks.”
I then realise I should have thought before shutting Mungo down. I turn
back to Rick.
“Err, I’ll need to check with Chloe. She might have made plans.”
 “Oh. You two sorted out your problems, then?”
“We’re not shouting at one another quite as much, but … it’s a work in
progress.”
“Just remember what I said about keeping control, eh? If you want to go
to Solihull next Saturday, you go, mate. Let your missus take an inch and
she’ll take a mile — they’re all the same, mark my words.”
“We must depart,” Mungo then says. “I have the sudden urge to
defecate.”
“I haven’t finished my drink yet,” I reply. “Besides, there’s a toilet here if
you’re desperate.”
“You cannot expect me to use the toilet in a public house. The standards
of hygiene and cleanliness are unacceptable.”
He’s not wrong, and besides, I’m not enjoying my pint and the prospect
of sitting here and dissecting this afternoon’s match holds little appeal.
I turn to Rick. “Sorry, mate. I’d better get him home before he shits
himself. I’ll ping you a message about Saturday.”
“No worries,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’m going to see if anyone
fancies a game of pool. See you next week, hopefully.”
We leave The White Horse barely fifteen minutes after entering — long
enough for the thunderstorm to have passed, taking the rain with it. That’s
not to say there isn’t another storm brewing.
“Would you like to explain your little outburst?” I say. “Telling Rick I
can’t go with him next weekend.”
“An outburst suggests a sudden release of strong emotion. I simply told
your friend that you cannot go to Solihull with him.”
“Overlooking the fact you don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot do,
why can’t I?”
“Because, Jake, unless tomorrow goes according to plan, there is a high
likelihood that you will be dead by next Saturday.”
 29
Of all the inane bullshit Mungo has uttered since I first clapped eyes on
him ten days ago, his prophesying my death just about took the biscuit.
After the initial shock, I asked the obvious question: how and where?
Unsurprisingly, he refused to say but stressed that there’s still time to avoid
my supposed fate. I don’t think anyone would appreciate hearing they’ll be
dead within a week, but by the time we arrived back at the house, I’d
accepted Mungo’s warning for what it really was — utter tosh. He then
went up to the spare bedroom and stayed there all evening, saying he had
necessary research to conduct.
This morning, Mungo left the house while I was still asleep, but not
before leaving a message with Chloe. Apparently, he and I are going on a
trip later, and I need to be ready to depart at 1.00 pm. He conveniently
forgot to tell my wife where we’re going, for how long, or the reason. All I
know is that today marks the end of our agreement. I gave Mungo five
days, but there won’t be a sixth. Whatever happens this afternoon, he’ll be
leaving for good this evening.
“Watch, Daddy!” Finn yells across the playground as he jumps off a low
wooden beam he’s been balancing on for the last five minutes.
“Very good, mate,” I shout back from the bench we managed to snare on
arrival.
It was Chloe’s idea to visit the play park this morning. She cooked a full
English for breakfast, and we left the house an hour later. Considering the
time of year, the weather is about perfect: a cloudless blue sky, virtually no
breeze, and the air temperature still in double digits.
“You were very quiet last night,” my wife comments. “More so than
usual after an Aldervale defeat.”
“Sometimes, it’s not the loss that pisses me off, but the way we lose.
Yesterday was one of those games.”
“You should be used to it by now, surely?”
Her smile suggests she’s only teasing.
“You’d think,” I huff.
We sit silently, content to watch our son enjoy himself for a while. In
many respects, we must look like a blissfully happy family enjoying a
perfect autumnal morning. This place is tarnished, though, because it was
on this exact bench that I discovered evidence of Chloe’s dirty secret. Even
now, two months after the event, I can still see the look on her face when I
confronted her. She’s wearing the same black and tan striped scarf today,
and it, too, will forever be tarnished by association.
Will memories of that fateful morning ever fade? Will I ever be able to sit
here and not think about my wife in bed with another man?
“Penny for your thoughts,” Chloe says.
“Trust me. You don’t want to know.”
The bitterness in my voice is so obvious, there’s no follow-up question.
Instead, Chloe pulls out her phone and taps the screen.
“I found this earlier,” she says, holding the phone towards me.
“What is it?” I ask before even looking.
“It’s a listing on a recruitment website.”
“Oh, I see. You’re job hunting for me now, are you?”
“No, a job for me.”
“You’ve already got a job.”
“I know, but … I was thinking that if I …”
“If you no longer worked with the bloke you shagged, it might be easier
for me to forget about it?”
Chloe returns the phone to her pocket but doesn’t answer my question.
We both know the answer, anyway. The silence returns until my wife
decides she wants to continue her inquest.
“I’m guessing you’ve not had any luck on the job front?”
“Nope.”
“Had you considered … no, forget it.”
“Forget what? Come on, say what you were going to say.”
“Had you considered applying for positions above the one you had?”
“I was a department manager. There aren’t many higher positions in the
tech industry.”
“But there are higher positions? I mean, you had a line manager, so there
must be opportunities.”
“Well, yeah, but why would I bother applying? I don’t have the
experience.”
“Do you know that? If you haven’t bothered applying, I presume you
haven’t looked into what other companies are looking for?”
“No, I haven’t because it’d be a waste of time.”
 “How do you know that? There could be a small company or start-up
looking for a project director or a head of infrastructure. They might be
willing to take a punt on a young, hungry, and enthusiastic candidate.”
“Shame I’m none of those things.”
Chloe’s forehead creases with a frown.
“You’re only thirty-two, Jake. And, six months ago, you had all the
hunger and enthusiasm in the world.”
“And where did that get me?”
“That’s it, then?” she sighs. “One setback and your career is over?”
“I never said that. I’m only being realistic about my prospects.”
“Realistic or pessimistic?”
I turn to Chloe and mirror her frown. “Has Mungo been filling your head
with his crap?”
“No, I never …”
“Just leave it,” I snap. “I’ll decide what jobs I want to apply for, and as
for that pint-sized freak, he’ll be out of our lives by the end of the day, so
what he thinks is irrelevant.”
“Even if he’s right?”
“Trust me — he’s a lot of things, but right isn’t one of them.”
Chloe slumps back on the bench to demonstrate her exasperation.
“What’s the point of you going with him this afternoon if you’ve already
made your mind up?”
“Because I said I’d give him five days, and I don’t want it said that I
didn’t at least try to make things work.”
“Are you talking about Mungo’s therapy or our marriage?”
“Both.”
Chloe visibly winces at my cold reply. The icy atmosphere only cracks
when Finn yells over to us, asking if we saw him on the slide.
“Yeah, well done, mate,” I call back. “But, we need to get going soon.
Five more minutes, alright?”
As if suddenly injected with a renewed sense of enthusiasm, our son
races off towards the fort to make the most of his five remaining minutes.
The five minutes pass quickly, but Finn retains his enthusiasm on the
walk home. That enthusiasm helps offset the lingering tension between his
parents.
We arrive home and all go our separate ways: Chloe to the lounge, Finn
to his room, while I head to the kitchen and put the kettle on.
 With a mug of coffee in hand, I sit at the table and pore over the
comments on the Aldervale fans’ forum relating to yesterday’s game. I half-
expected to see a long thread about our manager’s resignation or sacking,
but no such luck. It beggars belief that a man can continue to turn up to
work every day, knowing that hardly anyone has any faith in him or his
ability to turn the toxic tide.
“Deluded idiot,” I mumble.
I then spend twenty minutes compiling a long-winded post, confirming
my thoughts on yesterday’s debacle. It doesn’t take long for other fans to
add their responses, all in agreement that the manager has to go, along with
half the first-team players and the board of directors. With every refresh of
the page, the responses keep coming, and I get so sucked into the discussion
that I lose track of time. Only when the doorbell rings do I check my watch:
1.00 pm.
Footsteps thump down the stairs, followed by Finn’s excited voice. By
the time I reach the hallway, he’s already opened the door to Mungo. He
then proceeds to share every detail of his adventures in the park this
morning. I let him finish and then suggest he joins his mummy in the
lounge to watch a movie. With mild reluctance, Finn says goodbye to
Mungo, but he’s looking forward to seeing him again later. My son doesn’t
know it, but I think it’s unlikely he’ll ever see Mungo again.
Once Finn is out of earshot, I reaffirm my reluctance to go anywhere this
afternoon.
“For the record, I think this will prove a pointless waste of time.”
“You have nothing to lose besides your time, which you will likely waste
this afternoon, anyway.”
“At least I get to waste it doing what I want.”
“That is true, but you can only determine if your time is being wasted
after the event, surely?”
“Alright,” I huff. “I’ll play along, but you know this is it, right? Today is
your last day, and I never want to see you again once it's over. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Good. Where are we going?”
“We will require your motor vehicle. Our destination is nine miles away.”
“Fine, I’ll drive, but you didn’t say where we’re going.”
“You will find out when we get there.”
“I want to know first.”
 “There is no time for your petulance, Jake. We need to go now.”
Despite the scolding, I snatch my coat from the hook and slip it on.
“Can you at least tell me how long we’ll be?” I ask.
“It will take as long as it takes.”
“Have you ever given anyone a straight answer? Ever?”
“All my answers are accurate if that is what you are asking. As you will
discover, not everything in this life is black or white.”
I grab my keys, open the front door, and remotely unlock the car.
“Get in before I change my mind.”
Once we’re ready to depart, Mungo finally imparts a clue to our
destination.
“Head due south, away from the town.”
“Hold on. You said that wherever we’re going is nine miles away.
There’s nothing but open fields and countryside nine miles south of
Aldervale.”
“Exactly. Drive on.”
I begrudgingly slip the gear lever into first and pull away.
There’s little in the way of conversation as we head along the main road
away from central Aldervale. The shops give way to industrial estates,
houses, and eventually to open fields. At this time of year, those fields are
post-harvest and barren, a stark contrast to the blue sky above. The
hedgerows are still green, and more than half of the trees are clinging to
their ochre-coloured leaves. If it wasn’t for the circumstances, I might be
inclined to say it’s a pleasant excursion into the countryside.
“Take the next turning on the right,” Mungo suddenly announces.
I slow down as a narrow lane creeps into view.
“Down there? I don’t think it leads anywhere.”
“Just take the turning.”
I snort an indignant sigh, flick the indicator stalk, and take the requested
turn. We enter the unnamed lane, and Mungo instructs me to continue until
he says otherwise. After a few hundred yards, the lane snakes left, right, and
left again before straightening out. Ahead, a thin band of tarmac rises
towards a thicket of trees in the distance. The tall hedgerows on either side
of the lane add a disorientating element to the journey, hiding any
geographic points of reference from view.
“Once we are under the tree canopy,” Mungo says, “there is an unmade
track on the left. Turn into it.”
 “Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“Yes. Continue.”
I keep my foot on the accelerator until we reach the thicket.
Even without a full complement of leaves, the trees do a fine job
blocking the sunlight. The view ahead is suddenly dark, almost foreboding,
and I begin to feel uneasy until the trees on the left thin out.
“The track is there,” Mungo remarks, pointing to a wooden post marking
an otherwise indiscernible junction.
With no other vehicles around, I don’t bother indicating.
The unmade track is riddled with potholes and puddles, so I’ve no choice
but to stay in first gear unless I fancy destroying the car’s suspension. It’s
slow going, but after the track curves gently to the right, it opens onto a
clearing roughly quarter the size of a football pitch. I wouldn’t go as far as
to call it a car park, but someone has levelled the ground and sparingly
covered it with gravel. There’s also a bright-blue rubbish bin in the corner.
“Park here,” Mungo orders.
With no defined parking bays, I drive to the edge of the gravelled area
and kill the engine.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“This, Jake, is the place where your thinking changes. Remember it
because your life will never be the same.”
 30
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking,” I comment as we walk away from the
car. “That, this would be a great place to murder someone or dispose of a
body.”
“Are you intending to murder me?” Mungo replies.
“Let’s be frank — ask a hundred people which of us looks the most like a
serial killer, and ninety-nine would say you.”
“Apart from being predominantly male, there are no physical traits
shared by serial killers. Therefore, such a poll would be meaningless.”
“If you say so.”
We reach a muddy path that sweeps upwards through a cluster of trees. It
doesn’t look particularly long, but within the first fifty yards, the gradient
makes its presence felt. My fitness, or lack thereof, becomes apparent as we
reach the crest of the path. Breathing hard and calf muscles burning, the
ground finally levels out.
“We are nearly at our destination,” Mungo confirms without any change
in his breathing.
“Thank Christ,” I pant. “I never signed up for a hike.”
With nothing but trees and dense bushes directly ahead, the path takes a
ninety-degree turn to the right. As we round the corner, the view changes
dramatically. Within a few dozen yards, we step out onto the top of a hill; a
broad valley of fields and coppice stretching east and west as far as the eye
can see.
We come to a stop, side by side, and I take in the view.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“The official name, as indicated on the Ordinance Survey map, is
Parson’s Peak.”
“I’ve lived in Aldervale all my life, and I had no idea it existed.”
“We are not in Aldervale.”
“No, but it’s not that far, and if I’d known it existed, I’d have brought
Chloe and Finn here for a picnic.”
“Perhaps before, but not of late.”
“Before?”
“Yes. Before the deterioration of your relationship.”
 Mungo might be right, but I can’t bring myself to acknowledge his
assessment. Instead, I continue staring silently out across the landscape.
“We are not here for the view, Jake.”
“No? Why are we here then?”
“Come this way.”
Mungo turns around and beckons me towards a wooden bench twenty
feet from our vantage point. The bench is unremarkable in every respect,
bar two exceptions. Firstly, it appears new, untouched by the elements.
Secondly, there’s a brass plaque fixed to the strut running horizontally at the
top of the backrest.
“Read the inscription,” Mungo orders as we come to a stop directly in
front of the bench.
I lean forward to get a better view of the words etched into the plaque.
“In loving memory of Sanjay and Arati Jaffrey. Forever in our hearts and
our thoughts.”
I turn to Mungo. “You dragged me up here to look at a memorial for
some random couple?”
“Not a random couple. Do you not recognise the surname?”
“No. Should I?”
“You work with Ashrinda Jaffrey, do you not?”
“Ash?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I didn’t know his surname.”
“You have worked alongside him for many months, yet you do not know
his surname?”
“Never had cause to ask,” I shrug.
“What about his life beyond your place of employment?”
“I don’t much give a shit. I’m there to work, not make friends.”
Mungo stares down at the inscription and shakes his head.
“That is a shame, Jake, because you and Ashrinda have much in
common.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You were fifteen years of age when your mother left home, correct?”
I don’t recall telling him that, but as he’s been chatting to Chloe a lot, it
wouldn’t surprise me if she told him.
“I was. So what?”
 “At that same age, Ashrinda lost both his parents — Sanjay and Arati
Jaffrey — in a road traffic accident.”
My gaze falls back to the plaque, and the names I now know are Ash’s
parents.
“I didn’t know,” I murmur.
“Shall I tell you what else you do not know?”
With the needle on my guilt meter already twitching, I don’t think I do.
“Um …”
“As an only child, Ashrinda had no family in this country apart from his
paternal grandmother. He moved in with her, and for eighteen months after
his parents’ death, he struggled to manage his grief.”
The needle twitches again. When I heard that Ash’s gran had taken a fall,
I presumed it was just a lame excuse to skive off work. How was I to know
they only had one another for support?
“I will continue,” Mungo says. “Ashrinda eventually found a way to
manage his grief, but by that point, his opportunity to attend college and
university had passed. Not only did your colleague lose his parents, but he
also lost his childhood dream of becoming a computer scientist.”
It never occurred to me that perhaps I’m not the only TechWorld
employee doing a job well below their capabilities. The difference is that I
make it abundantly clear that the job is beneath me, whereas Ash positively
embraces his role.
“Alright,” I puff. “If you were hoping to guilt-trip me, mission
accomplished. I should have made more effort with Ash, but you didn’t
have to bring me here to make your point.”
“It is symbolic.”
“For Ash, maybe.”
“Certainly, that is true. I understand this bench only arrived at this point
two days ago. Ashrinda purchased it with monies he won in a lottery
competition.”
“Yeah, I … um, he tried to tell me, but … we were busy at work.”
“In which case, you will be unaware of the reason the bench is located
here.”
“It’s a nice view?”
“It was here that Sanjay Jaffrey proposed to the woman who would
become his wife, and therefore it became a place of significance for them
both, and subsequently for Ashrinda. Here, he feels close to his parents.”
 Mungo then bows his head towards the bench, his hands clasped behind
his back. I don’t want to appear disrespectful to the two dead people I’ve
never met, so I bow my head and maintain a dignified silence. A minute or
so feels dignified enough.
“So, is that it? You brought me up here for a history lesson on the Jaffrey
family?”
“No. I brought you up here so you might understand the significance of
family.”
He turns around and walks slowly back to the edge of the hill. There he
looks out into the distance. Reluctantly, I join him.
“What significance?” I sigh.
“Whether you accept it or not, you are intent on destroying your family.”
“Err, excuse me. I’m not the one who … I’ve done nothing wrong,
certainly nothing that would destroy my family.”
“The problem you have, Jake, is that you do not even realise what you
are doing subconsciously.”
“And what am I doing, exactly?”
“I believe the correct term is self-sabotage.”
“Why would I sabotage my own family?”
“Because you would rather do it yourself before someone else does it.”
“Wow,” I snort. “Even for you, that’s a whole new level of bullshit.”
“Is it? Your father left when you were still young, and your mother left
nine years later. Then you lost your grandfather. Although the
circumstances differed on each occasion, every member of your family has
left you.”
“Shit happens. You move on.”
“But you did not move on. You are now subconsciously sabotaging your
relationship with Chloe Mason. You feel that you do not deserve to be part
of a happy, contented family unit.”
“Again, that’s utter crap.”
“Are you pushing your wife away? Answer honestly.”
“If I’m being harsh to Chloe, it’s for a good reason. And, most men
would have walked away by now, but I’m still trying to hold our marriage
together, despite what she did.”
Mungo doesn’t poke any further, probably because he can sense my
agitation. With his attention back on the view, I reach into my coat pocket
for the car keys. Our trip to the countryside is over as far as I’m concerned.
 “Do you know what a jigsaw puzzle is, Jake?”
“What? Course I do.”
“You will know, then, that in order to see the full picture, you must have
all the pieces, and each piece must be correctly placed.”
I puff a long sigh. “Is there a point to this?”
“Over the last ten days, I have determined the severity of your mental
state, and the only therapy that will fix your thinking must be radical.”
“Radical?”
“It seems I have no choice but to hand all the pieces of the jigsaw to you
because you are so consumed with negative emotions that you are incapable
of identifying them yourself, never mind seeing the full picture.”
“Nice metaphor, but I’m done with all this.”
“No,” he replies, sternly. “We are a long way from done.”
Mungo turns to face me and then dips a hand into his jacket pocket. He
pulls out a slip of white paper and hands it to me.
“This is the first piece.”
I take the slip of paper and unfold it.
“What the hell is this?”
“It is a phone number.”
“Whose phone number.”
“Your mother’s.”
He could have penned the name of the man who shagged my wife, and it
would have come as a lesser bolt from the blue. Once the shock subsides, a
dozen questions rain in.
“What … why … where did you get this number from?”
“That is of no consequence.”
Seventeen years have passed since my so-called mother fucked off to
Greece and never returned. In the months after she left, I couldn’t have
hated her more. When Granddad died, the grief surpassed the hatred, and it
eventually numbed. Years later, after I’d been dating Chloe for a few
months, she asked about my mother, and I answered honestly — I no longer
felt anything for that woman. Tina Mason was, and still is, dead to me.
“If you knew what that woman did,” I growl. “You’d understand why I
have zero interest in calling her.”
“You are angry and still harbour hatred — that is understandable, but it is
clouding your judgement.”
 “I think my judgement is pretty sound regarding that woman. She
abandoned me without any explanation, and she’s never made any effort to
explain why, let alone apologise.”
“And that is why you need to know the truth. It will, in part, release you.”
“Have you spoken to her?”
“No.”
“Then, how do you know she’s got anything … anything at all worth
hearing?”
“Only you can judge if Tina Mason has anything worth hearing.
Therefore, I strongly suggest you do not tear up that slip of paper but keep
it until you are ready to listen.”
A lucky guess on his part, but my first instinct was to rip the slip of paper
to shreds and scatter it like confetti. Only my aversion to littering prevented
me from following through.
“Put it in your pocket and call the number when you are ready. That is all
I ask.”
Mungo then stares silently out towards the horizon for a long moment
before turning his back on the view.
“We must go now,” he says.
“Is that it? We’re done?”
“No.”
“You said you wanted five days to prove I’d benefit from your therapy,
and those five days are up. You’ve proven nothing.”
He takes two steps towards me. “If you are never going to believe in
anything, Jake, you might as well return to that railway bridge and jump.
However, you will likely survive unless a passing train hits you. I would
recommend sleeping pills and alcohol … perhaps vodka. A word of caution,
though: if you think your life is challenging, ending it is even harder …
would you not agree?”
For a man with such a monotone voice, the slight change in pitch and
intonation to his final few words adds a chilling quality. Not as chilling,
though, as the words themselves. I can cite Chloe as the source for most of
what Mungo Thunk knows about my past, and it wouldn’t have required
Sherlock Holmes to track down Tina Mason, but how in God’s name could
he have possibly known about the time I came close to ending it all? I’ve
never told a living soul.
“How … why did you mention sleeping pills and vodka?”
 “Wrong question, Jake.”
“What?”
He takes another step forward and looks me dead in the eye.
“Are you not curious?” he then asks.
“Curious? Err … about what?”
“If I know about the sleeping pills and vodka, what else might I know?”
A cold wind suddenly whips across the hilltop.
“Err, I don’t understand.”
“Truth comes in many forms, and humans are notorious for failing to
recognise it. The question is: do you want to see your truth?”
Still confused, to the point I’m struggling with rational thought, it’s all I
can do to open my mouth and spit out the first words that leave my mind.
“Um … yes,” I gulp.
“Good. We will return to the house, and I will begin preparations for the
coming days.”
“Preparations for what, exactly?”
“I must show you the pieces. You will have to put them together yourself,
though.”
“I’m not sure I understand … any of this.”
“You will. I would bet my own life on it.”
 31
Finn is of the age where he’s hyper-inquisitive and, before his mutism,
he would pepper Chloe and me with a constant stream of questions. Where
does the moon go during the day? How do babies grow in a tummy? Why
doesn’t Daddy have boobs like Mummy’s?
Occasionally, Finn would ask questions that weren’t so easy to answer.
What happens when animals die? Where does God live? Why does Mummy
sometimes make strange noises in the bedroom?
Partly to protect my son and partly because some subjects are too
complex for a young mind to grasp, I’d usually reply with a white lie. I took
the view that one day he’d work out the answers for himself and, in the
meantime, it’s probably better to be blissfully ignorant than troubled and
confused.
Ironically, I’m now troubled and confused because I don’t have an
answer I understand.
Mungo maintained a resolute silence all the way back to Aldervale
yesterday afternoon. As soon as we stepped through the front door, he said
he was off to chat with Finn, and then he would be in the spare bedroom all
evening and shouldn’t be disturbed under any circumstances. No debate, no
discussion.
Until our little trip, I was one hundred per cent certain there wouldn’t be
any extension to Mungo’s five days of so-called therapy. That was,
however, before he messed with my head and seeded questions I’m unable
to answer. My need for those answers is stronger than the desire to kick him
out. Just.
This morning, he was leaving the house as I traipsed down the stairs at
half-seven. Before I could ask him anything, he said we would talk later,
and then he promptly left.
“Are you okay?” Chloe asks.
“Err, yeah. Bit tired.”
She gets up from the table and puts her bowl in the dishwasher. I happen
to glance at the clock.
“Shouldn’t you have left five minutes ago?”
“Probably,” she snorts.
 With obvious reluctance, she kisses Finn goodbye and offers me a wan
smile. “I’ll see you later.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
With Chloe and Mungo out of the house, the conversation ends.
Although I can’t remember the last time we were alone together, I do
remember Finn’s mutism was still in full force.
A spoon clatters in a bowl, breaking my thoughts. Before I’ve a chance to
say a word, Finn darts off upstairs.
“Teeth,” I call after him. He doesn’t reply.
I put our bowls in the dishwasher and the cereal box back in the
cupboard. Being a Monday morning, I’m usually full of dread but not this
Monday morning. Something that I can’t put my finger on feels different,
like the unease I get when Aldervale are in the relegation zone as the
football season draws to a close. I don’t like it.
I head up to the bedroom, checking Finn is in the bathroom as I pass. The
jacket I wore yesterday afternoon is on a hook on the back of the door. I
stare at it for a moment, thinking about the slip of paper in the pocket. On
four separate occasions yesterday evening, I removed it from my coat,
intent on transferring it to the bin. On all four occasions, I returned it to the
pocket. I don’t know why. At one point, as we were getting ready for bed, I
toyed with the idea of talking to Chloe about it, but she was in a funny
mood all evening and unusually quiet. Besides, I’m still a long way away
from trusting my wife’s judgement on anything.
I grab the jacket and transfer it, along with the slip of paper, to the
wardrobe. If it’s out of sight, I no longer have to think about Tina Mason. If
only it were so easy to expunge Mungo’s words from my mind: Truth
comes in many forms.
“I’m ready, Daddy.”
I spin around. Finn is standing in the doorway, smiling up at me, his coat
on and his school bag over his shoulder. It’s not his unusually early
readiness for school that surprises me, though — it’s the fact he’s just
spoken to me.
“Oh, great,” I cough. “Well done, mate.”
“Are you ready?”
“Nearly. Give me a sec.”
“Okay,” he chirps before turning around and marching back across the
landing to the stairs.
 The unease I’ve felt since I woke up this morning is suddenly swamped
by an altogether different emotion: relief. It’s not pure and unadulterated
relief, though, because it’s tainted with anxiety. Finn’s mutism arrived
without warning, and who’s to say it won’t return the same way? I need to
keep the elation at bay until I know for sure he won’t retreat into his silent
shell.
“Play it cool, Jake,” I murmur.
I head downstairs. Finn is in the hallway, putting on his shoes.
“Do you need a hand with your laces?” I ask, nervously.
“I can do it.”
“Good boy. I knew you’d get the hang of it.”
Five minutes later, we’re in the car, heading to Belle Vue Infant School.
Finn hasn’t said a word since I clipped his seatbelt in place, and I’m torn. I
don’t want to say the wrong thing, but I don’t want to say nothing. After
another minute of silence, I chance a safe question.
“What lessons do you have today then, mate?”
“I think we have art today, and I love doing art.”
“You’re much better at painting than Daddy. When I was at school, I
drew a picture of my teacher, and it was so bad she thought I’d drawn a
scary monster. She did give me a gold star, though, but only because she
didn’t know it was supposed to be her.”
Finn chuckles at my anecdote, and I experience a glow so warm I’m
tempted to turn on the air-con. He then tells me all about his teachers and
which ones are his favourites. The conversation continues all the way to the
school gates, where I get a hug and a cheery goodbye before Finn races off
to play with his friends. As I watch on, I can’t help but think back to the day
he ran off without a word and how my heart shattered at that moment. I
can’t go back there, no matter what.
Once the kids are corralled into their respective classrooms, I hurry back
to the car. After Mungo’s revelations on Parson’s Peak yesterday, I’m keen
to have a word with Ash before my shift starts.
The traffic is unusually kind, and I pull into the TechWorld car park
twenty minutes before my shift is due to start. Ash is always at the counter
ten minutes before he’s supposed to be, but I know he likes to start his day
with a cup of tea. I lock the car and head for the staffroom.
When I arrive, my colleague is in the process of dunking a tea bag into a
mug.
 “Kettle just boiled?” I ask.
Ash turns around and appears genuinely surprised to see me.
“Oh, morning, Jake. You’re early.”
“Yeah, I was hoping to catch a chatty worm.”
“Sorry?”
“Remember Mungo? That short bloke you were talking to last week —
the one who asked what it was like working with me?”
“Um, yes.”
“You two obviously hit it off because you’ll never guess where I found
myself yesterday afternoon.”
“I have no idea.”
“Parson’s Peak.”
Ash stares back at me wide-eyed. “You were at Parson’s Peak,” he
confirms.
“Yes, because you told Mungo your life history, and for some reason, he
thought I would benefit from hearing all about it.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Stuff about your parents and Parson’s Peak.”
“I only mentioned my parents in passing, and I definitely did not mention
Parson’s Peak.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Well, someone must have told him.”
Ash might have a number of annoying habits, but he’s no liar. That being
the case, how the hell did Mungo find out about Ash’s back story? At the
moment, though, that question isn’t my immediate priority. My usually
placid colleague is currently sporting an expression I’ve not seen before. I
think he might be annoyed.
“Is this some kind of prank?” he asks.
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know why you’re asking me questions about Parson’s Peak or
my family. That is private and deeply personal.”
“Alright,” I snort. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Ash ignores me and returns his attention to his cup of tea.
“I think you should leave,” he says over his shoulder.
“Alright. I’ll just grab a coffee …”
“No, Jake. I mean, leave your job.”
 “What?”
He turns around, and for a second I’m taken aback by the harshness of
his expression.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at here, but I do remember how mean
you were to Troy. I also know what unkind comments you make about your
other colleagues.”
“Eh? I only say that stuff in jest. I don’t mean it.”
“Maybe not, but you’ve crossed the line this morning. I’ve shown you
nothing but kindness and friendship, and you choose to mock me.”
“I wasn’t mocking you. I was only asking …”
“I don’t want to hear it. You’ve gone too far.”
Ash grabs his mug of tea and makes for the door. When he reaches it, he
stops and looks back at me.
“You really should think about leaving TechWorld,” he says, flatly.
“Everyone here has their own difficulties in life, but we don’t bring our
negativity to work and inflict it upon our colleagues. Your behaviour is so
incredibly selfish.”
With the most unexpected of bombshells dropped, Ash strides away.
I remain where I am, staring at the empty doorway, gobsmacked. For a
second, I consider chasing after Ash but think better of it. Perhaps he needs
a bit of time and space to cool down. I’d probably benefit from a few
minutes of quiet reflection myself. I didn’t see Ash’s tirade coming, but
even if I had, I don’t think I’d have been able to launch a defence.
I slump down on one of the hard plastic chairs and stare at the wall. They
say the truth hurts, but I feel like I’ve taken a punch to the guts. Worse still,
I probably deserve a good punch. Even when dealing with the testiest of
customers, I’ve never known Ash to raise his voice, let alone lose his
temper.
A minute or two of soul-searching confirms that I have messed up, and
there’s no excuse for my twattish behaviour. I can only apologise to Ash
and ask for a second chance. As for the rest of my colleagues, maybe the
damage is already done, and they’ll never think of me as anything but a
selfish prick.
It then dawns on me that I really shouldn’t care one way or another. I
don’t intend to stay in this job much longer. Why should I care what they
think of me? The trouble is, on reflection, I’m not too fond of this version
of Jake Mason either.
 I decide that whilst I’m willing to swallow my pride and apologise, I’m
not entirely to blame for this situation. Maybe I was a bit surly when I
started working at TechWorld, but the belligerence only arrived after
Chloe’s infidelity. She, therefore, must shoulder the lion’s share of the
blame.
With my thoughts returned to some sort of order, I make a coffee and
head down to the shop floor. Ash is finishing with a customer when I arrive
at the counter. Flashing a wide smile, he thanks them for their custom and
bids them goodbye. I take my cue.
“Ash, can I have a word?”
“I don’t think there’s anything left to be said, Jake.”
“There is — I need to apologise. Not just for what I said this morning but
for … well, for everything.”
“Everything?”
“I know I’ve been a miserable arsehole for months but … I’ve got no
excuses. I’m not going to lie; what you said up in the staffroom stung, but I
deserved it and needed to hear it.”
“Fair enough.”
“You accept my apology?”
“Yes, but I don’t know if everyone else will be so forgiving. You’ve upset
a lot of people with your attitude.”
“I’ll deal with that in time, and I promise I’ll try to leave my problems at
the back door in future.”
His smile returns, albeit lacking its usual brilliance.
“Oh, and one other thing, Ash.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment, but when life gets back to
some level of normality, I was wondering if you fancy going out for a few
beers?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I … err, maybe we’ve got more in common than I realised. For
the record, that’s on me.”
“Okay, great. I’d like that.”
It’s a relief that at least one member of the TechWorld team no longer
wants to punch me in the face, but after such a positive start to my day with
Finn, I can sense the negativity creeping back in. One step forward, one
back.
 I’m on my best behaviour for the rest of the morning and avoid offending
customers and colleagues. When lunchtime comes, I reckon I’ve earned a
caramel latte and a cinnamon bun, so I dash out of the main doors and cross
the car park to Costa.
As I close in on my destination, I’m still distracted by what happened in
the staffroom and how much of it I can pin on my wife. I snap back to
reality as I reach the doors to Costa and reach out to grab the handle. At that
exact same moment, the door swings outwards as a woman exits. Our eyes
meet, and just as I’m about to apologise for startling her, familiarity strikes.
The woman isn’t a stranger — it’s Ellie, the attractive nurse I fondled in Bar
KoKo before I ran off.
Maybe that’s why she looks so angry.
 32
I take a few steps back, hoping I’ll receive no more than a tut and a
stern glare before Ellie continues on her way.
“You!” she snaps.
“Oh, err … hi, Ellie.”
She’s not going anywhere, it seems. Yet again, I’ve no option but to offer
another grovelling apology.
“Um, listen,” I say, adopting my best orphaned waif expression. “I’m so
sorry for running out on you that evening. It was rude of me, and I can only
apologise.”
“I’ve got every mind to kick you in the balls,” she snarls back. I think she
means it.
“I get that, but I’d rather you didn’t. As I said, I am genuinely sorry.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffs. “You probably did me a favour, running off like
that.”
“True. I’m no one’s idea of a catch.”
“Cut the self-sympathy crap. What happened? Did your bottle go?”
“Something like that.”
“I suppose I should be grateful I didn’t end up like poor Amber, you
sicko.”
“Eh? What happened to Amber, and why am I a sicko?”
“Don’t play the innocent,” she says with a look of utter contempt. “Men
like you and your mate want locking up.”
“Christ, I’m sorry I ditched you on the dancefloor but get some
perspective, eh.”
“I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about what your mate did to
Amber and what you probably had planned for me before you lost your
bottle.”
I stare back at Ellie, confused and more than a bit irked by her vague
accusation.
“What are you on about?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re lucky Amber didn’t get the police
involved.”
 I take another step back, so we’re clear of the doors and earshot of any
passers-by.
“I don’t have to pretend, Ellie, because I really don’t have the first
fucking clue what you’re banging on about. What happened to Amber, and
why would she even consider involving the police?”
Ellie, too, steps away from the door but maintains the distance between
us.
“That mate of yours took Amber back to his flat, and—”
“Wait. They went back to Rick’s flat?”
That doesn’t tally with what he told me when we briefly discussed that
evening.
“Yes,” Ellie replies. “And, if you let me finish.”
“Sorry. Carry on.”
“After they had a few drinks, she passed out. The next thing she knows,
she’s lying on his bed and he’s trying to tug her skirt off.”
“Err, okay.”
“Then she noticed the camera and lighting rig set up at the end of the
bed, like the kind they use in a photography studio.”
My brain runs through a shortlist of innocent explanations that might
exonerate Rick.
“Sorry, Ellie. What exactly are you saying? That Rick intended to take
photos of an unconscious woman in some state of undress?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, but thank God Amber woke up and got
the hell out of there before he had a chance.”
“Did Rick offer any explanation before she left?”
“Yeah, course he did, but it was obviously bullshit. He said the camera
gear was already there when Amber passed out.”
“She thought otherwise?”
“Doesn’t matter. Amber was in a right state when she got out of there,
and that’s down to your pervy mate.”
My mind is already at capacity, and I don’t need this. Whatever happened
has happened, and I’d rather keep out of it.
“Well, I’m sorry that Amber was upset, but this is the first I’ve heard of
it. I don’t know Rick that well, but he’s always struck me as a decent
bloke.”
“Typical,” Ellie spits. “Men like you always stick together. You’re a
disgrace.”
 She ratchets up the look of contempt and then, with one final snort,
shakes her head and walks off.
“Yeah. Bye, Ellie,” I mumble.
Distraction over, I grab my lunch and eat it in the staff room, where I’m
unlikely to bump into any more enraged nurses. I spare sixty seconds of
thought on Ellie’s story, concluding that I don’t know Rick’s side. Maybe I
misheard his claim that they went back to Amber’s flat, or maybe it doesn’t
matter in the grand scheme of my problems. If I remember, maybe I’ll
speak to Rick next time I’m in The White Horse.
The rest of the afternoon passes by without incident, and I manage not to
piss off any of my colleagues by avoiding them altogether.
With my shift over, I race across town to pick up Finn, reaching the
school gates with five minutes to spare. As it happens, Rachel arrives at the
exact same moment, and we walk to the classroom together.
“I’m glad I caught you,” she says. “I have a massive favour to ask.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Are you free on Wednesday evening for a couple of hours?”
“Err, I think so.”
“I know this is cheeky, but would you mind watching Alfie at my place
from six till eight? My best friend is having a baby shower, and my parents
have both come down with the flu, so they can’t watch him. Obviously, you
can bring Finn along, and I’ll pay for takeaway pizza.”
Seeing as Rachel has twice played host to our son, I can’t really refuse.
“I don’t see why not.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Jake. Everyone I’d usually ask will be at the baby
shower, so you were my last hope.”
The obvious hope would be Alfie’s dad, but after her kitchen
confessional about their marriage breakdown, I guess he’s the last person
Rachel wants to ask.
“No problem,” I smile. “Happy to help.”
We collect our respective offspring, and I’m both relieved and delighted
when Finn tells me about his day as we walk back to the car. We continue
chatting on the drive home, and I ask if he wants to come with me to Alfie’s
house on Wednesday. There’s no way he was ever going to decline the
promise of pizza and a few hours with his best friend.
I turn into Norton Rise and slow down as we approach the house.
 “Look! Mummy’s home,” Finn chirps, pointing to Chloe’s company car
on the driveway.
“So it seems,” I reply, curious why my wife is home from work two
hours before she’s meant to be.
I park up, and we enter the house to find Mungo and Chloe sitting at the
kitchen table. The minute she sees Finn, Chloe pulls him into a long hug. I
turn to Mungo.
“Where have you been all day?”
He stands up and wanders around the table to where Finn has wriggled
out of Chloe’s arms.
“Finn and I will now watch television,” Mungo says, ignoring my
question.
The two of them then depart. Chloe gets up and shuts the kitchen door
behind them.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
My wife waves her hand at the table. “We need to talk.”
It isn’t just her sombre tone that implies bad news is on the way — the
makeup around her eyes is smeared, suggesting she’s been crying. I sit
down.
“What’s the matter, Chloe? Has something happened to your parents?”
“No,” she gulps, taking the seat next to mine. “Nothing like that.”
“What is it then?” I ask with some measure of urgency. “You’re scaring
me.”
She takes a deep breath and a few seconds to regain her composure.
“I don’t want you to be angry, Jake, but … I quit my job.”
Her statement, although unexpected, comes as a relief. Not because I’m
pleased she’s quit her job but because my mind had already decided that her
news would be far, far worse.
“Obvious question first,” I reply. “Why?”
“I’ve had enough. Their demands are ridiculous, and I can’t take the
stress anymore.”
“Okay, but … this doesn’t leave us in the best place, financially. The
whole point of you taking that job was so we could keep our heads above
water until I find a suitable position.”
“I know, I know, but I’ve already spoken to a couple of agencies, and
there are tons of payroll jobs available at the moment. I’m sure I’ll get
something better within a week or two. And I’m still due another month’s
pay, so we’ll be fine on the money front. I promise.”
“Right. Well, it’s your decision at the end of the day.”
“It is, but in an ideal world, I’d have spoken to you first. I’m sorry, but it
just happened.”
“What exactly did happen, and why are you home so early?”
“I might have suffered a minor breakdown at my desk. I told Danny I
couldn’t cope anymore and wanted to leave. I was in such a state that he
called in Kelly from HR. We had a brief chat, and I told her I was struggling
with the hours, the stress, and the workload, and she said I could leave there
and then.”
“So, that’s it? You’re not going back?”
“Nope, and I can’t tell you what a relief it is.”
I’m also relieved, but not for the reason I suspect Chloe is. It’s the coldest
of comforts, but at least she’ll no longer be sharing an office with the man
she shared a bed with. However, something doesn’t quite sit right with
Chloe’s version of events. I worked in the corporate world long enough to
know that companies don’t tend to let employees leave on the spot unless
they’ve secured a job with a competitor. Perhaps they felt sorry for Chloe
and did the decent thing, but given the circumstances, very few employers
would readily agree to a month's severance pay and continued use of a
company car.
The cogs in my mind slowly begin to whirl.
“How did Danny take the news of your departure?” I ask.
“Um, I think he probably expected it. As I said, I’ve been feeling the
pressure for a while now.”
“Was he annoyed?”
“No, not at all. He understood my reasons and wished me well.”
From what I remember of Chloe’s anecdotes, Danny Oswald’s
management of the finance department verges on tyrannical. She probably
doesn’t remember, but I recall her telling me about an incident where
Danny made an intern cry because she forgot to put sugar in his coffee.
Why would he be so understanding when it comes to Chloe? Something
isn’t right here.
Having unburdened herself, Chloe perks up a bit.
“I need to go and take my face off and grab a shower,” she says. “Then,
I’ll start updating my CV and upload it to job sites.”
 My wife gets up and places a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay? You’re very quiet.”
“I’m fine. I’m … processing.”
“I know you must think I’ve been a bit reckless leaving my job, but I
promise this is a small step in the right direction … for all of us.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it is.”
She squeezes my shoulder and hurries off upstairs. The moment she’s
gone, I allow my thoughts to wander, free of distraction.
In the days after I discovered Chloe’s infidelity, and in lieu of her refusal
to tell me who she’d slept with, I drew up my own shortlist. Danny Oswald
was top of that list. Being a director, he had to be at the conference, and he
also had oversight of the payroll department, which meant daily contact
with Chloe. I was so convinced it was him, I began searching his social
media profiles, looking for ways I might enact revenge. I planned to destroy
his life but not before I’d kicked the shit out of him.
My theory, such as it was, came off the rails when I stumbled upon a post
on Danny Oswald’s Facebook page. The post showed a photo of a newborn
baby and confirmed that Danny’s wife had given birth to a little girl — the
day before the conference.
As much as I wanted it to be Danny Oswald, I couldn’t imagine any man
heading off on a work jolly with his wife and day-old baby still in hospital,
never mind spending the night in the hotel with another man’s wife. I
concluded that Chloe’s boss might be an arsehole at work, but not even he
would stoop so low.
Now, I wonder if he did.
Is it beyond the realms of all possibility that Danny attended that
conference and, after he and his colleagues wet the baby’s head into the
early hours, maybe he then enjoyed a drunken one-night stand with Chloe?
In his shoes, I’d be nervous about anyone finding out, and I definitely
wouldn’t want a reminder of that night sitting in an office with me every
day. Any disagreement between Danny and my wife could result in a veiled
threat to reveal the truth. That’s not Chloe’s style, but would her boss know
that?
Piece by piece, the picture begins to emerge. Is this what Mungo meant?
Did Chloe confide in him, or did he work it out himself? Either way, I can’t
rely on either of them for the truth. I need to confront the man himself.
 Tomorrow, I intend to have a little chat with Danny Oswald and if I don’t
like what I hear, I’ll blow his fucking family apart, like he’s blown mine
apart.
 33
“You look as exhausted as I feel,” Chloe remarks as I munch
unenthusiastically on a slice of toast. “And, I told you I’d do the school run
this morning. You could have stayed in bed, you know.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble.
To say I couldn’t sleep would be the mother of all understatements. From
the moment my head hit the pillow, I couldn’t shake the image of my wife
rolling around naked with Danny fucking Oswald. I’ve never met the bloke,
but I’ve seen enough photos of him on Facebook, and he’s grinning like a tit
in every one of them.
Why wouldn’t he?
Oswald is a man with a well-paid job who lives in a lovely house with his
adoring wife and two beautiful children. Not satisfied with that, our Danny
is also keen on a spot of extra-marital fun, and two months ago, the tosser
jumped into bed with my wife while his wife was still catching her breath
from the exertions of childbirth.
I stewed on that thought for the first hour after I went to bed, and then I
realised what I failed to realise when I crossed Danny from the suspect list.
In the seven or eight weeks before giving birth, Chloe had no interest in
sex, understandably. Then, we waited about six weeks after Finn’s birth
before we even attempted it, so we refrained from sex for the best part of
three months in total. If Danny Oswald had endured a similar experience,
he was probably well into a prolonged period of enforced celibacy when he
arrived at that conference. Add in alcohol and a hotel room, and you’ve got
the perfect ingredients for a one-night stand.
The only question I can’t answer relates to Chloe’s intoxication level and
her judgement.
As I tossed and turned, it did cross my mind that maybe Chloe was
drunk, and her boss took advantage. Although it’s no excuse, it makes
sense. Until that weekend, there’s no way I’d have said that Chloe was the
cheating type, but she obviously proved me wrong. My only doubt is who
instigated their tryst, and my money is firmly on Danny Oswald.
For that, he’s going to pay.
 Chloe leaves the kitchen to help Finn get ready for school. Barely a
minute later, Mungo walks in.
“Good morning, Jake.”
“Morning.”
“You did not sleep well,” he says, sitting down opposite me.
“That obvious, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“I know.”
“You’ve no idea,” I scoff. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful.”
He stares back at me, his head slightly tilted to the side. “Grateful?”
“What you said on Sunday about pieces of the jigsaw — I think I’ve just
unearthed a massive missing piece.”
“I also said the truth comes in many forms.”
“Yeah, I get it.”
“Do you?”
I nudge my plate away, one slice of toast untouched because I’ve no
appetite.
“I’m starting to see the truth,” I reply.
“You are starting to see a version of the truth, Jake. You should tread
carefully. It may not be the right version.”
“I’ll know by the end of the day, that’s for sure.”
“Understood. In the meantime, have you decided whether or not to call
your mother?”
“I put it to the back of my mind, but nothing’s changed. What could she
possibly say that would justify her actions?”
“I do not know.”
“There’s absolutely nothing.”
“As far as you know, there is nothing. That is extremely short-sighted but
not unsurprising.”
“Eh?”
“So many humans are unwilling to look beyond the walls of their own
limited imagination. That is a shame because there is much to be discovered
beyond those walls, including answers.”
“Thank you, Captain Cryptic. That’s very useful.”
“My advice is more useful than your sarcasm.”
“Maybe, but I’m not in the mood for your wisdom this morning.”
 “Very well,” he replies, getting to his feet. “We will no doubt speak again
later.”
With that, he says something about further research and leaves the house.
A few minutes later, Chloe shouts from the hallway that they, too, are off.
I get up and trudge to the front door, where Finn is zipping up his coat.
“Have a great day at school, mate.”
“I always do, Daddy,” he grins back.
God, what I wouldn’t give to be four again. The world is far less
complicated.
“I’ll pick him up later,” Chloe confirms. I can barely bring myself to look
at her.
“Alright.”
I kiss Finn goodbye and then head upstairs to get ready for work.
Half an hour later, as I enter the TechWorld staffroom, I can already
detect the first pink tinges of a red mist in my peripheral vision. On the
drive into work, it took every ounce of resolve not to change course and
head for the offices of Loxford Commercial Furniture. I resisted the
temptation but couldn’t do anything to quell the anger that’s been
simmering away since yesterday evening.
Today will require Herculean levels of restraint, and I pity any customer
who fancies complaining too vehemently.
The morning proves tolerable as Ash suggests I help out in the
stockroom. Working alone, I move from shelf to shelf, consolidating and
tidying our existing stock to make room for the goods our company will
begin advertising many weeks ahead of Christmas.
Lunchtime arrives, but my appetite is still missing in action. I force down
a ham sandwich and a can of energy drink. Not only does the injection of
caffeine help relieve my tiredness, but it also brings some clarity to my
thoughts. By the end of my shift, I know what I need to do.
Barely thirty seconds after shutting the door at the rear of the TechWorld
building, the sat nav is set and I’m on my way to Loxford’s head office
where, up until yesterday, Chloe worked. As she’s currently collecting Finn
from school, I’m free to confront her boss and get the truth.
With every passing mile, my rage builds. For two months, I’ve had an
image of Chloe and another man ingrained in my mind, and now that man
has a face and a name. He’ll pay for what he’s put me through.
 The sat nav guides me through an industrial estate to a large three-storey
building with a car park at the front. I abandon my car in one of the visitor
spaces and approach a set of double doors with a sign to the side,
confirming I’m about to enter the headquarters of Loxford Commercial
Furniture.
On the other side of those doors, there’s an unmanned reception desk in
front of a larger version of the sign outside. Fortunately for me, there’s also
a sign indicating which floor each department is located and arrows
pointing left and right. The third department on the list is Finance. Head
left, and it’s on the second floor.
I barge through a door to a lobby with two further doors and a stairwell
directly ahead. I take a deep breath and try to quell my anger because if I’m
to get the answers I deserve, I have to charm my way into Danny Oswald’s
office. Once his door is closed, and we’re alone, I’ll let rip.
I reach the second-floor landing, and another sign on the wall confirms
that the Finance department is through a door to my right, whereas the sales
department is to the left. I’ve been so focussed on my mission that it never
occurred to me that I might bump into Rick. I pause for a moment and
consider the wider implications of what I’m about to do. Rick and Danny
Oswald might be old school buddies, but surely Rick wouldn’t condone
what his mate did. His wife cheated on him, so if he’s likely to take
anyone’s side, I’d hope it would be mine. Even if he doesn’t, I care more
about justice than my relationship with Rick. If he’s pissed off with me,
tough.
I push through the door to another reception desk with an actual
receptionist in situ.
“Good afternoon,” she says brightly. “Can I help?”
It’s a challenge, but I mirror her smile. “I was hoping to have a quick
word with Danny if he’s available?”
“I’ll check for you. Can I take a name, please?”
I’d already considered this scenario on the journey here, and I’m not
willing to risk the mission by giving the receptionist my real name. It would
be too easy for Oswald to tell the receptionist he’s busy, and then hide in his
office for the rest of the afternoon. I also don’t know if they have any
security staff in the building.
Fortunately, the information gleaned from Facebook proved useful for
formulating a cover story — one that will get me past the gatekeeper and
into Oswald’s office.
“Yes, I’m Jonny Lomax,” I reply. “I went to school with Danny’s wife,
Lisa. I’m trying to arrange a surprise reunion, and I was hoping to grab two
minutes so I could run the plan by him.”
I ratchet up my smile and tap a forefinger against my nose for good
effect.
“Oh, that’s so cool,” the receptionist gushes. “Let me call Danny’s
extension.”
She picks up a phone and dials three digits. After a few seconds, she
relays my name and reason for being here to Danny Oswald, presumably.
It’s followed by an agonising few seconds of silence until the receptionist
responds.
“No problem. I’ll bring him through.”
She puts the phone down and gets to her feet. “You’re in luck. Danny’s
got ten minutes free before his next meeting. I’ll show you through to his
office.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I follow closely as the receptionist strides through an open door to the left
of her desk and along a short corridor. She then stops and raps her knuckle
on a door with a silver plaque fixed to the front.
“Come in,” a male voice responds.
The receptionist opens the door and waves me in. I flash her a smile and
enter. She closes the door behind me. Perfect.
“What can I do for you?”
I turn to face my nemesis, standing behind a desk laden with folders and
paperwork. On first impressions alone, it’s obvious that Danny Oswald only
posts filtered photos on Facebook. In reality, he’s overweight, and his
receding hair appears unnaturally brown. As he went to school with Rick,
he’s obviously the same age, and neither man has aged well.
What the hell was my wife thinking?
If Chloe had hopped into bed with a fit, young Adonis, I’d have
understood, kind of. Standing here now, I’m struggling to understand why
she’d want to shag a man as unappealing as Danny Oswald.
I step forward but remain close enough to the door to block Oswald if he
tries making a run for it.
“Hello, Danny,” I growl. “I’ve been waiting to meet you for a while
now.”
 “Sorry?”
I take another step forward. “I’m Jake Mason … Chloe’s husband.”
His confusion appears genuine.
“Why did you tell my receptionist your name was Jonny and you wanted
to see me about a reunion?”
“I think we both know why. You’d have told her you’re busy.”
“No,” he snorts. “I’d have told her you’re wasting your time and mine. I
appreciate Chloe is your wife and you’re only looking out for her, but I
won’t change my mind. She’s done here.”
His response scrambles my mind for a moment.
“What won’t you change your mind about?”
“Letting her go. We can’t put up with that kind of behaviour.”
Confusion reigns. Nothing he’s said so far tallies with what Chloe told
me. I’m about to seek clarification, but then I remind myself it’s incidental.
I’m here for one reason and one reason alone.
“I couldn’t give a shit about how or why Chloe left yesterday. I want to
talk about what happened between you two at the conference in
Southampton.”
Again, he appears confused.
“The one back in the summer?”
“Yes, that conference.”
“I don’t know what you think happened with your missus, but it sure as
shit didn’t involve me. I wasn’t even at the conference.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Listen, mate,” he snaps. “I don’t care what you believe, but just so we
can bring this conversation to an end, I’ll tell you where I was on the day of
the conference.”
He reaches across his desk and grabs a mobile phone. After a few taps,
he holds it up so I can see the screen. I take a few steps forward to see
properly, but once the image comes into focus, a tiny gasp escapes my
mouth.
“That’s my daughter on a ventilator,” Danny confirms. “I was sitting with
my wife, next to a crib in an intensive care unit as our little girl fought for
her life.”
I shut my eyes for a second, hoping the ground might swallow me up. It
doesn’t.
“Oh.”
 “But she’s fine now, thanks for asking.”
My rage well and truly dampened, all I can do is stare at the carpet and
sigh.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m glad your daughter is okay, and … and—”
“And nothing. I think we’re done here, don’t you?”
“Yes, I think so.”
As I’m about to turn and skulk away, Danny holds up his hand. “Wait a
sec.”
“What?”
He rummages through a tray on his desk and extracts a white envelope.
“You might as well take this with you; save us the cost of a stamp.”
I reach forward and take the envelope. “What is it?”
“It’s the letter confirming why we terminated Chloe’s employment, and a
copy of her P45.”
The question I’d put to the back of my mind a minute ago suddenly races
forward.
“You fired her?”
“Before you get arsey again, I had no choice. Your missus brought it on
herself.”
“Chloe told me she resigned.”
“Did she hell. I fired her.”
“For what reason?”
“She threw a mug of coffee at one of her colleagues.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I don’t know,” Danny shrugs. “But she’s been a right moody cow for
weeks now. I thought it was her time of the month so I let it slide, but that
wife of yours seems to suffer from permanent PMT.”
His terminology provokes a return of my angst.
“Maybe she was pushed to the limit by your demands. Do you have any
idea how much stress you put her under?”
“Comes with the territory. If Chloe couldn’t handle it, she should have
quit before having a bloody breakdown.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t have had a breakdown if you’d been a bit more
understanding.”
“I haven’t got time to deal with your wife’s neurosis, mate. This
department is responsible for keeping the business on an even keel, and if
someone isn’t up to the job, tough. I don’t make concessions for employees
just because they look half-decent in a skirt and makeup.”
“Unbelievable,” I snort. “It’s amazing that anyone would want to work
here, never mind women.”
“Whatever. Shut the door on your way out.”
Defeated and deflated, I turn and trudge to the door.
“By the way, Danny,” I remark, before I depart. “I do feel sorry for your
daughter. Not only because she had a difficult start to life, but because she’s
got a sexist prick for a father.”
I walk away before he can respond.
Head down, I stride back along the corridor, past the receptionist, through
the door, and down two flights of stairs. That short space of time is all it
takes to re-target my anger. I’m still none-the-wiser about who Chloe slept
with, but I now know she lied to me about resigning.
I’m done with her lies.
I clatter through the double doors and storm towards the car. It’ll take me
at least half an hour to drive home, but when I get there, I’m almost looking
forward to seeing Chloe’s face when she realises I’ve caught her out.
Pressing the button on the remote, I unlock the car and tug the driver’s
door open. Only when my left buttock touches the seat do I realise I’m not
alone.
Someone, somehow, is sitting in the passenger’s seat.
 34
Mungo stares at me, expressionless.
“How the hell did you get in my car?” I bark, still reeling from the
unwelcome surprise.
“Through the passenger door,” he replies, dryly. “But once again, you
have asked the wrong question.”
“Alright. What the hell are you doing in my car?”
“I am talking to you.”
The temptation to smash my head against the steering wheel is almost too
much.
“I’ll try again,” I groan. “Why are you in my car?”
“That is the correct question, Jake. I am in your car to stop you from
making a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“One heavily clouded by your current emotional state. You are angry.”
“Too bloody right I am, and so would you be if you were in my shoes.”
“Your shoes would not fit me.”
I settle on whipping my head back so it strikes the headrest. Less painful
than the steering wheel and arguably a lot less painful than this
conversation.
“Give me strength,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “I meant, if you were
me, you’d be angry too.”
“Yes, and disappointed with myself. What has angered you on this
occasion?”
“To use your stupid analogy, I just found a piece of the jigsaw puzzle but
not the piece I intended to find.”
“Every piece is important if you are to see the full picture. It involves
Chloe, correct?”
“How do you know?”
“You are at her place of work.”
“Her former place of work. Her boss fired her yesterday, but Chloe told
me she quit.”
“She lied to you?”
 “Yes, again. My wife has developed a habit of spinning lies, and I’ve had
enough.”
“You intend to return home and confront her?”
“Obviously.”
“That would be a mistake.”
“Would it now? Why’s that?”
“Because you still do not have all the necessary pieces — facts, if you
will.”
“My wife lied to me. That’s all I need to know.”
“You recall I said that the truth comes in many forms. So too do lies.”
“A lie is a lie.”
“That depends on the motivation behind it, would you not agree?”
“No, I wouldn’t. Lying is always wrong.”
“What about the lies you tell Finn every December? Are they wrong?”
“What lies?”
“You tell Finn that Father Christmas will visit and deliver his presents.
That is a lie.”
“Well, yeah, but …”
“And that Father Christmas will enter your home in the middle of the
night, consume cookies and milk, and then depart in a sled, pulled through
the sky by reindeer. Is that not the most preposterous of lies?”
“Okay,” I grunt. “But it’s a different kind of lie, alright.”
Mungo looks directly at me, and, ever so slowly, the edges of his mouth
curve upwards a fraction. If it’s his idea of a smile, he needs to see a plastic
surgeon.
“As I said, Jake: a lie can come in many forms.”
“Fine. You got me there, but Chloe’s lie is a twenty-four-carat whopper.”
“It is not the extent of the lie that matters but the motivation behind it.
When you lie to Finn, it is to bolster an illusion he finds enticing. It is
benign, and Chloe’s lie might be equally as benign.”
“Well, I’ll find out when I get home.”
“I would not confront her yet.”
“Why not?”
“You know why. We have discussed it.”
“Because I don’t have all the pieces of your bloody jigsaw?”
“Correct.”
 “Give them to me, then. If you’re so certain that I’m missing something,
cut out all this bullshit and tell me what it is.”
“That is not possible.”
“Because?”
“Because you must complete your therapy, and the only way this will
work is if you learn the lessons of this experience. It is no different to Finn
learning to tie his shoelaces.”
“I beg to differ.”
“There is no need to beg, and you might want to differ, but it is of no
consequence because I am right.”
“You’re comparing my life with my son learning to tie his laces?”
“The principle is the same. Every day you stepped in and tied Finn’s
laces was another day he did not learn to do it himself. The most effective
way of learning is through necessity.”
“And I’ve got to learn this lesson?”
“Not need, Jake. You must learn it.”
“Or?”
“Or events will escalate, and your story will not have a happy ending.”
A dull headache makes its presence felt. No doubt caused by tension, I
seek relief by massaging my temples with the tips of my fingers. Mungo
remains silent, but his advice lingers on.
“What should I do, then?” I say, quietly. “About Chloe.”
“Nothing. By my estimation, the picture will become clear within the
next two or three days.”
“And then what?”
“That is for you to decide, but I am hopeful you will act with a fresh
perspective.”
The silence returns as I try to imagine how hard it’ll be, keeping my
emotions in check for a few more days.
“I’m not sure I can do it,” I mumble. “There’s only so much one man can
take before he reaches the end of his tether.”
“I know, and that is why I am here.”
“To talk some sense into me?”
“To prevent you from reaching the end of your tether.”
“What if you’re wrong, though? What if this supposed picture fails to
materialise? What happens then?”
“Three questions, but they all have the same answer — I do not know.”
 I throw my hands up in the air. “Well, that’s just brilliant.”
“Brilliant seems a strange choice of adjective, considering your tone of
voice.”
“I was being flippant.”
“Why?”
“Forget it. I’m more concerned by your admission that you don’t know
what will happen if I follow your advice and it doesn’t work.”
“I know what will happen if you do not follow it.”
“Oh, yeah — I’ll die, right?”
“You are being flippant again?”
“Yes.”
Mungo appears to ponder his next move, staring out of the windscreen at
the featureless car park.
“I do not know the answers to your questions, Jake, because there is one
variable I have limited influence over.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You are prone to reacting on emotion alone, and that makes you
unpredictable.”
“I’m not a bloody robot, Mungo. How else am I supposed to react if not
emotionally?”
“Logically.”
“Thanks for that,” I huff. “If it were so easy to control emotions, no one
on this planet would suffer from mental health issues.”
“I did not say it was easy, but your every thought and every action is so
consumed by negative emotions there is no space for logic.”
“Thinking logically wouldn’t have made one jot of difference. I’d still be
here, and my life would still be a fucking car crash.”
“I doubt that.”
Mungo’s dismissive reply irks, and the red mist begins filtering in again.
“Alright,” I snap, twisting in the seat so Mungo can see exactly how
consumed by negative emotions I am.
“How would you react if you found out your wife had slept with another
man?”
“I would be indifferent. All humans need to sleep.”
I let out a low groan.
 “Had sex with another man,” I sigh. “How would you feel if your wife
had sex with another man?”
“I do not have a wife, so I cannot answer that question.”
“Use your imagination.”
To my surprise, he closes his eyes for a good seven or eight seconds.
When I suggested he use his imagination, I should have realised he literally
would.
“Well?” I prompt.
“I would ask a question: why?”
“Why what?”
“Why my partner would choose to engage in sexual activity with another
male. Do you know the answer to that question, Jake?”
“I, err …”
I don’t know the answer, and now Mungo has raised it, I feel foolish that
I never even asked Chloe why she did what she did.
Mungo responds to my slack-jawed stupor. “You never asked her, did
you?”
I think back to the hours after I discovered that receipt in Chloe’s purse,
then the days, then the weeks. I said quite a bit, shouted a lot, and even
cried and screamed several times. Not once did I think to ask that most
obvious of questions: Chloe, why did you do it?
“No,” I murmur. “I didn’t.”
“Do you understand my point now?”
“Not sure.”
“You were so racked by negative emotions that you failed to ask the
single most important and logical question. And you will recall from our
previous conversation that you cannot effectively solve a problem if you do
not understand the cause.”
The validity of his point slowly sinks in.
“I guess you’re right,” I begrudgingly concede. “But there’s a big
difference between understanding a problem and being able to fix it.”
“Every problem can be fixed.”
“Not every problem.”
“Name one.”
“Alright, what about … wars. How do you fix the problem of countries
going to war?”
 “Countries do not go to war — humans order other humans to go to war.
The solution is, therefore, simple — eradicate humans.”
“Brilliant!” I scoff. “It’s a bloody good job you weren’t around when
World War II broke out. Your solution would have made Hitler’s look like a
peace treaty.”
“It is a solution, though, you must agree.”
“Yes, but worse than the actual problem, and counter-intuitive — you
don’t save lives by killing billions of people.”
“Nor, Jake, do you save a marriage by killing it.”
Either Mungo is supremely talented in leading my thoughts in a
particular direction, to places I’ve never been, or I’m so blinded by my own
negativity that I didn’t even realise those places existed.
I twist around and slump back in my seat. “I hate you, Mungo,” I sigh.
“Do you?”
“No, not really. I hate myself, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if you’d met me six months ago, I’d be the one pointing out the
obvious.”
“What is the obvious?”
“That … that, I’m no longer thinking straight.”
“But, as I have maintained since we first met, your thinking can be
fixed.”
“You genuinely believe that?”
“I would not be here otherwise.”
“Where would you be?”
“That is unimportant. What is important is what you intend to do when
you return home.”
It’s my turn to close my eyes and use my imagination. I picture a scene in
the kitchen where I confront Chloe with more of her lies. I can see her face,
bearing the scars of first shock, then guilt. I can see the unfolding argument
as it boils towards a full-scale row. I can hear the yelling, the cursing, the
screaming, and the doors slamming. Worst of all, I can see Finn standing in
the corner, sobbing his heart out.
“It’s a good question,” I finally reply.
“Do you have a good answer?”
“Yes. I’m not going to say anything to Chloe, but I am willing to keep
looking.”
“For?”
“The pieces.”
“That, Jake, is the correct answer.”
 35
Last Christmas, I made a case for Finn’s main present to be a bike —
his first. Chloe came around to the idea, not least because she became swept
up in my enthusiasm. Granted, that enthusiasm came from my own
experience of receiving a new bike for Christmas, albeit the following day,
and courtesy of my granddad. I figured that even if Finn felt half the
excitement I did when I first rode that bike, he’d likely be the most excited
boy in Aldervale on Christmas morning.
After much consideration and research, we popped into town and ordered
what I thought was the perfect bike. I was so paranoid about it being out of
stock that we collected it a full six weeks before Christmas. Those six
weeks were a struggle because I couldn’t wait to see Finn’s face light up
when he unwrapped his first bike. At one point, I nearly gave him a hint just
to catch a glimpse of his potential excitement. I’m glad I didn’t because his
reaction on Christmas day was priceless, and made all the sweeter because
I’d waited so long to witness it.
I also struggled to keep my mouth shut yesterday evening. Not because I
didn’t want to ruin a surprise but because I wanted to confront my wife with
more of her lies. Every time I came close, I thought back to that moment in
the car with Mungo and the scene I imagined.
God knows how, but I managed to go the whole evening without even
hinting at my true feelings. I only hope the payoff proves worthwhile
because it was pure torture. This morning I had less temptation because we
only shared the same space for twenty minutes, and Mungo’s glare across
the kitchen table proved an adequate deterrent until Chloe hurried off to do
the school run.
“Morning, Jake,” Ash beams as I stroll up to the counter.
I’m about to snort my usual response, but for the first time in a long time,
I think before I open my mouth.
“Morning, Ash … um, how’s your gran doing?”
Even to my own ear, the words sound strangely alien. Ash has only ever
met the curmudgeonly, world-weary version of Jake Mason, and he’d never
ask such a question.
“She’s doing really well. Thank you for asking.”
 “Oh … right. Good.”
Ash doesn’t push his luck with any of his usual inane questions and
returns his attention to a pile of paperwork he’s sorting through. His smile,
though, remains. I don’t know whether it’s because I made an effort or
because he loves sorting paperwork. I’m not inclined to ask and get on with
my own work.
As the morning progresses, we’re too busy for conversation, but in a rare
lull, Ash opens his wallet and shows me a photo. The photo is old and
features a smartly dressed couple, perhaps at a wedding.
“You mentioned Parson’s Peak,” Ash says. “And I like to think the best
of people, so I’m showing you this photo in the hope I haven’t misjudged
your intentions.”
I turn my focus from Ash to the photo. “Your parents?”
He nods solemnly.
“I honestly didn’t mean to offend you, Ash. I was curious how … I
presumed you told Mungo all about your parents because he knew what
happened to them.”
“I don’t know how he knew about my parents, but there were several
newspaper articles about their accident, so I suppose he might have found
one of those articles online.”
“What about Parson’s Peak?”
Ash shrugs. “Maybe he met my parents, and they told him. I honestly
can’t think of any other way he’d know.”
“No, neither can I.”
“But I’m glad he told you.”
“You weren’t glad yesterday.”
“Yesterday, I thought you were mocking me.”
“I might act like a dick now and then, Ash, but I’d never sink so low as to
take the piss out of what happened to your parents. I can’t begin to imagine
what you went through.”
“It was the worst time of my life, but thankfully I had my gran. If it
wasn’t for her, I … I don’t even like to think about it.”
It’s clear from the sadness in Ash’s eyes that he probably does think
about how his life might have panned out without the support of his gran.
“But, I do still have her in my life,” he continues, regaining his smile.
“And, every day, I remind myself how fortunate I am.”
“Is that why you’re always so cheerful?”
 “What’s the alternative? Being miserable isn’t much fun, and besides,
once life has dealt you the cruellest blow, every other problem seems so
trivial by comparison.”
“I suppose.”
A customer approaches the counter, bringing our conversation to an end.
Ash steps forward and greets another ruddy-faced pensioner as if he’s a
long-lost relative. I’ve often wondered how he does it, but I guess I now
know — he somehow manages to keep life’s challenges in perspective. I
hate to admit it, but for the first time since I started working at TechWorld,
I’m seeing my colleague’s ever-positive attitude in a new light, and maybe
I’m a teeny bit envious.
Lunchtime comes, and after grabbing a sandwich, I traipse up to the
staffroom to savour the silence, if not the sandwich itself. I’m about to take
the first bite when my phone rings. Slightly panicked to see Chloe’s name
on the screen as she never calls me during the day, I quickly accept the call.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Don’t worry. Nothing sinister,” she replies, picking up on the concern in
my voice. “I have some good news … for a change.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I’ve just had a call from a recruitment agent. They’ve arranged an
interview with a potential employer this afternoon.”
“Right. Well done.”
I’m pleased for Chloe, but her almost immediate success on the job-
hunting front is an unwelcome reminder of how badly my efforts have
stalled.
“That’s only half the good news. The pay is slightly more than at
Loxford’s, and the position allows for flexi-time work hours.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’d only have to work in the office three mornings a week, from nine till
one, and the rest of the time, I can work from home. That means I can do
both ends of the school run.”
“What about school holidays?”
“They allow staff with kids to work at home all week during school
holidays. It sounds like the perfect job, don’t you think?”
“It does sound great. What’s the catch?”
“Typical,” Chloe chuckles. “Only you would ask that question.”
“Someone has to.”
 “I’ll know more after the interview, but on paper, at least, I can’t see any
catches … oh, except one.”
“I knew it. Go on.”
“They’re desperate to fill the vacancy and asked if I can go in for an
interview at four-thirty this afternoon.”
“Why’s that a problem?”
“You’ve agreed to mind Alfie for Rachel later, haven’t you? I was hoping
to relieve you of that duty and take Finn over there myself, but I doubt I’ll
be back in time.”
“It’s okay,” I sigh. “I think your search for a job takes precedent.”
“Something will happen for you on the job front soon,” Chloe replies
after a brief pause. “I know it will.”
“We’ll see,” I reply with far less conviction.
A little over three hours later, I find myself sitting at the table at home
with the laptop open. When I pulled up on the driveway, Mungo — as is
becoming his way — appeared from nowhere and joined me on the front
path. After doing God knows what in the spare bedroom for ten minutes,
he’s just wandered into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Job hunting.”
“I will join you,” he replies, pulling out the chair next to mine.
“Why?”
“You might require assistance.”
“I think I can handle pinging a few CVs off.”
“How long have you been searching for suitable employment?”
“I lose track. Four months, maybe.”
“And you have had no success?”
“Obviously not, otherwise, I wouldn’t be sitting here now, would I?”
He ignores my snarky reply and stares at the screen.
“A CV is a curriculum vitae, correct?” he asks. “A summary of an
individual’s career, qualifications, and education.”
“That’s about the strength of it.”
“I will read your curriculum vitae,” he then announces, leaning forward
to study the screen.
After the briefest of scans, he sits back in his chair.
“It is perfunctory.”
“Yes, it’s supposed to be.”
 “Is it?”
“I’ve read hundreds of CVs, and I’m not interested in fluff. All I need to
know is if the candidate is qualified to do the job they’re applying for.”
“Your curriculum vitae does not tell the story of who you are. It is merely
a list of facts.”
“As I said, that’s deliberate.”
“Humans enjoy reading stories. They are less keen on reading lists.”
“So you say. I disagree.”
“And yet, you are still searching for a suitable position after four
months.”
Mungo then stands up and slides his chair back into place.
“What you are doing is beyond illogical,” he says. “And, as your lack of
success implies, pointless.”
He wanders away before I can launch a defence.
For a few minutes, I sit and seethe. What the hell does Mungo Thunk
know about job applications? Then, my eyes fall on the last section of my
CV; the part relating to hobbies and pastimes: I enjoy TV, films, and
football.
It is factually correct, but what does it say about me? Either I couldn’t be
arsed, or I’m the world’s dullest man.
Once my irritation passes, I concede that a few minor tweaks might be in
order.
Two hours later, after interruptions from both Finn and Chloe, I sit back
and puff a satisfied sigh. My son wanted to tell me about his day at school,
whereas my wife wanted to talk about her upcoming job interview. I did my
damnedest to sound enthusiastic on both counts but I really wanted to get
on with the job in hand. What started out as a few minor edits to my CV
evolved into a complete overhaul. He’ll never know, but I channelled my
inner Ash and imagined what he’d write. My updated CV now oozes
positivity, and maybe it does tell my story better than the previous version.
Whether it helps or not remains to be seen. To test it, I’ve applied for a
job I’ve no hope of getting because it’s a senior management role with a
software company — way beyond my experience level. I suppose it’s better
to aim high and fail than not try.
Finn comes hurrying into the lounge just as I shut the laptop down.
“Are we going soon, Daddy?” he asks.
“As soon as I’ve got my shoes on. Are you all set?”
 “Yes, I’m ready.”
There’s no sign of Mungo, and when I call his name up the stairs, he
doesn’t answer.
“He’s not here,” Finn remarks.
“Do you know where he is?”
“He popped back home.”
“Oh, right. I don’t suppose he mentioned where home is?”
“He lives in a house deep in the forest, where there are no grown-ups.”
“Okaaay. Glad we cleared that up. Come on.”
Conscious of the time, I hurry Finn to the car and then set off on the short
dash to Rachel’s house. We arrive a few minutes before six, and I apologise
for cutting our arrival so fine.
“Don’t worry. Gemma lives in the next road, so it only takes a minute to
walk there.”
Rachel then hands me a pizza menu and confirms there’s cash on the
kitchen side to pay for whatever we want. Knowing she’s a single parent,
her cash will still be there when she returns home.
“I’ll be back about eight,” she confirms after kissing Alfie goodbye and
warning him to be on his best behaviour. “And thank you again for doing
this, Jake. You’re a lifesaver.”
“No worries. I hope you have fun.”
“You’ve never been to a baby shower before, have you?”
“Err, no.”
“Fun, they’re not.”
Rachel hurries out of the front door, and I corral the boys into the kitchen
to select their pizzas for delivery. Once they’ve run through all the items
they hate, including mushrooms, anchovies, olives, peppers, and that green
stuff neither can remember the name of, they settle on a pepperoni pizza to
share. They then dash off to Alfie’s room while I ring the order through.
Being a Wednesday, the pizza restaurant isn’t that busy, and the doorbell
rings within half an hour. The boys come charging down the stairs as I call
them on the way to the front door, and we then retreat to the kitchen to eat
at the table. They attack their pizza like they haven’t eaten in a week.
“Slow down, boys,” I warn. “What’s the hurry?”
“We were in the middle of a game,” Finn replies with a mouthful of
pizza. “And we won’t have time to finish if we don’t hurry.”
“Okay, but chew your food properly, or you’ll get indigestion.”
 “What’s that?” Alfie asks.
“It’s … it’s what happens to your tummy when you eat your food too
quickly, and it’s not nice.”
They continue eating at almost the same frenetic pace. If they want to
learn the hard way, so be it.
The boys eventually finish their pizza, leaving behind a trail of unwanted
crusts as they scoot back upstairs.
After I’ve finished eating and transferred the pizza boxes to the bin, I
return to the lounge. There are slim pickings on TV, so I browse the
Aldervale fans’ forum on my phone. Most of the new threads are
questioning why our manager is still our manager.
Reading the same old comments kills twenty minutes, but boredom soon
strikes. I decide to check on the boys and head upstairs, letting their voices
guide me to Alfie’s bedroom. I poke my head around the door.
“How are we doing?” I ask.
They’re both sitting crossed-legged on the carpet, playing a board game.
“Shush, Daddy,” Finn replies, staring intently at the board. “I’m
thinking.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll leave you to it, then, but it’s nearly half-seven, so you’ve
only got another thirty minutes to finish your game.”
They ignore me.
I turn around and head back down the stairs to the hallway. It seems like
an opportune moment to empty my bladder, so I step through the doorway
into the cloakroom.
Bladder emptied, I flush the toilet and turn around to use the sink,
positioned on the wall opposite. As I wash my hands I glance at the framed
photos to the right of the mirror: all three of Alfie at various stages of his
life. There’s another frame to the left of the mirror, but it doesn’t contain a
photo — it contains a printed document. Curious, I lean forward to see what
it is.
“Bloody hell,” I murmur.
Knowing what happened in Rachel’s marriage, I understand why she
couldn’t wait to end it. However, framing and displaying the decree
absolute seems a bit much. Then again, the divorce was a major event in
Rachel’s life and I’m sure she felt it was worthy of recognition, maybe even
celebration, considering the circumstances.
 Looking at the document, an icy shiver runs down my spine. So many
dreams, so much hope for the future, terminated in a single sheet of A4
paper and signed by some unknown bureaucrat. In this case, the only name
on the document I recognise is the petitioner, Rachel Bingley.
The surname doesn’t so much ring a bell but sets off a loud clang in my
head. My eyes follow the text to the next line and the name of the
respondent: Richard Bingley.
Bingley?
Richard?
“Rick?” I gasp. “No, it can’t be.”
 36
There’s far too much anxiety in the Mason household this morning.
Finn has somehow lost his left school-shoe and is currently tearing his
bedroom apart looking for it. Chloe is helping but she’s on tenterhooks due
to an eagerly-anticipated phone call. According to my wife, her job
interview couldn’t have gone any better, and the managing director
promised to call Chloe at some point this morning. She didn’t specify when.
My anxiety relates to a problem I didn’t realise I had up until 8.08 pm
yesterday.
When Rachel returned from her baby shower, I assured her the evening
had been wholly uneventful, and I insisted on paying for our dinner. I then
sought clarification about the man she’d been married to. Yes, her ex-
husband, Richard Bingley, did go by the name Rick, and yes, he was once
the chairman of Aldervale United’s Supporters Group.
Not wanting to risk Finn and Alfie’s fledgling friendship, I played down
my relationship with Rick. I don’t think Rachel would have been too happy
knowing I’ve been out drinking with her deviant ex-husband. In truth, I
wasn’t too happy about it myself.
They say there are two sides to every story, and when Rick told his, he
claimed that his wife had an affair and then unfairly rinsed him in the
divorce settlement. He failed to mention that he’d set up a video camera in
his sister-in-law’s bedroom and then uploaded hours of footage to a cloud
server where he could view it at leisure. What that footage included and
what Rick did as he ogled videos of Rachel’s naked sister doesn’t bear
thinking about.
I now know what my so-called mate did, but that isn’t the primary cause
of my anxiety. The pitifully sad existence that is Rick’s life is the very least
he deserves, but what’s troubling me is what else he did and what else he
might do. If it wasn’t for a chance encounter with a certain nurse, maybe I
wouldn’t feel quite so concerned this morning. However, I can’t ignore
what Ellie told me about the incident at Rick’s flat, and I need to know what
happened with Amber.
The problem is, I don’t have either woman’s contact details.
“Thanks for helping, Jake,” Chloe snipes.
 I look up from the table. “Eh?”
My wife pauses and takes a deep breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.
Just ignore me.”
“Stressed about that phone call?”
“Yep.”
“I’m sure it’ll be good news. On that front, did Finn find his shoe?”
“Yes, but we’re now running late. I’d better go.”
“Let me know when you hear about the job.”
“I will. Keep your fingers crossed for me.”
Chloe then hurries off into the hallway, frantically yelling Finn’s name.
Our son, like most kids, has no concept of time.
As the front door slams shut, I think back to that evening in Bar Koko
and the foggy memories of what happened when I returned from the toilet
to find Rick chatting with Ellie and Amber. Did either of them mention a
surname?
“Think, Jake. Think.”
It then dawns on me that although this is a problem, it isn’t my problem.
Surely, I’ve got enough crap to contend with without fretting about Rick’s
sordid behaviour.
Something Mungo said then filters into my thoughts. I don’t have a fix
for my problems, but if I can solve an entirely different problem, maybe
that shot of positivity will help balance out the negative thoughts.
I might be right, but that doesn’t help my cause. I still don’t know how to
track down either Ellie or Amber. Glancing at the kitchen clock is a
reminder that I have other priorities.
Forty minutes later, but none-the-wiser, I enter the staffroom at
TechWorld and put the kettle on. While I wait for it to boil, I keep myself
occupied by checking the Aldervale fans’ forum. There’s a new thread
discussing rumours that a new striker might be arriving on loan from
Southend United before Saturday’s game.
Somewhere, in a dark corner of my mind, a light flares. Striker.
Southend. Wasn’t Amber’s dad a former Aldervale striker, and if memory
serves, didn’t we sell him to Southend?
What was his name?
It only takes sixty seconds of googling to find the answer: Mike Sadler.
Within that same search, I also stumble upon the website for Sadler & Son
Plumbing Services. Did Amber mention working for her dad’s company? I
can’t recall but at least I’ve got a surname now and potentially a direct route
to Amber.
What I don’t have is enough time to call her and hold what is likely to be
a delicate conversation.
The kettle boils, and after making a coffee, I hurry down to the shop
floor. Ash is already dealing with a customer so I make myself busy while
planning what I might say to Amber. I also need to think how I sever ties
with Rick Bingley. Now I know what kind of man he is, I want nothing
more to do with him, but not before letting him know his perverse
behaviour is on my radar.
An hour into my shift, my phone vibrates. We’re not supposed to use our
phones on the shop floor, but as Ash is otherwise occupied and I’m facing
away from the security camera, I check the message. It’s from Chloe, and
it’s to the point: I got the job!!! I can start next week but we’ll talk about it
later. xx
The same feeling of envy resurfaces, but it’s not the overriding emotion
— that would be relief. I might have said it as a way of getting under my
wife’s skin but knowing she’ll no longer be working with the man she
shagged is at least a tiny step in the right direction. However, there’s still
cause for concern because her good news doesn’t gloss over the fact she
lied to me again, and what happens when her new employer seeks a
reference? Based on my brief meeting with Danny Oswald, I can’t imagine
his feedback will be glowing.
Tired of thinking about Chloe and what she did, I turn my thoughts back
to Amber. Weirdly, it’s a welcome relief. For too long now, my thoughts
have been totally consumed by my failing marriage, faltering career, and
damaged son. The opportunity for respite may be why I’m keen to hear
Amber’s story.
Soon enough, lunchtime comes and with it, half an hour to enact the
conversation I’ve spent all morning concocting. For privacy, I hurry out to
my car and call the phone number for Sadler & Son Plumbing Services. A
woman answers on the third ring, citing the company name and then asking
how she can help.
“Hi. Um, I’m trying to contact Amber Sadler.”
“Speaking.”
Shit. I didn’t recognise Amber’s voice or expect her to answer the phone.
 “Oh, err … my name is Jake, and we met the Saturday before last at Bar
KoKo. I was with … um, Rick.”
In hindsight, mentioning Rick’s name was a mistake, and reason enough
for Amber to hang up.
“And?” she replies, her tone aggressive.
“And … I bumped into Ellie the other day. She told me what Rick did
that evening.”
“Let me guess,” Amber growls. “You’re calling to check if I’ve told the
police?”
“No, not at all. I’m appalled by what Rick did, and the only reason I’m
calling is that I’ve just discovered that he’s got form for … for what he did
to you.”
“What do you mean?”
I spend a few minutes outlining how tenuous my friendship with Rick
really is, and then I relay a quick summary of what I know about the
breakdown of his marriage.
“The guy is sick,” Amber snorts after hearing me out. “He should be
locked up.”
“I don’t disagree, so why didn’t you go to the police?”
“What would they have done? He didn’t actually do anything to me,
thank God, apart from slipping something in my drink.”
“He spiked your drink?”
“I wasn’t exactly sober when I got back to his place, but I knew what I
was doing. Then, he gave me a glass of wine and we crashed on the sofa to
listen to music. By the time I’d finished that wine, I felt awful … spinning
head, nausea, and so incredibly tired. The last thing I remember was Rick
telling me I should have a lie-down. Then, I just zoned out.”
“Until he tried undressing you?”
“Yeah, but even then, I wasn’t sure what was going on. It was only when
I noticed the camera at the end of the bed that I managed to get my thoughts
in order. Soon as I did, I got the fuck out of there sharpish.”
“Do you think he intended to use that camera gear to take photos of
you?”
“No idea, but I’d rather not think about it. It was stupid of me going back
to his flat, but he seemed so nice, so normal.”
“If it’s any consolation, Amber, I thought he was a decent bloke, too. I
feel such a twat, falling for his sob story.”
 There’s a brief pause on the line, punctuated by a deep sigh.
“You really didn’t know Rick was a wrong’un, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Is that why you’re calling?”
“Maybe … I don’t know. Someone needs to call Rick out for his
behaviour.”
“You’re not wrong, but don’t expect the police to help.”
I don’t say it, but I’ve no intention of involving the police. The fact
Amber hasn’t reported Rick might aid the plan currently percolating in my
mind.
After promising I’ll let her know how events unfold, I thank Amber for
her time and apologise for what happened to her. It’s not my fault, but I
wonder how that evening might have panned out if I hadn’t bolted so early.
Then again, Amber wouldn’t be the only one now haunted by regret if
Mungo hadn’t suddenly appeared.
For the remaining twenty minutes of my lunch break, I sit and process
the two facts in my possession. I know I’ve been hanging around with a
serial pervert, and Chloe’s new job is under threat if Danny Oswald trashes
her reference.
Two facts, but one of them is also an imminent problem.
For the first time in so long, I clear my mind and begin unpicking the
messy threads knotted together into a tight ball of negativity. Whatever I
might think of Mungo Thunk, perhaps he did sprinkle his bullshit with a
few pearls of wisdom, and maybe one of those pearls is worth considering.
“Pieces of a jigsaw,” I mumble to myself.
I conclude there are two sets of facts, but as I place them side by side, I
realise that they connect.
It’s not entirely clear, but maybe I can now see part of the picture.
 37
Why don’t I want my wife knowing what I’m up to?
As I sit in the car outside TechWorld, mobile phone in hand, that question
continues to swirl around my mind.
After I finished my shift, I called Chloe and congratulated her on the new
job. She was understandably ecstatic, but she stopped short of suggesting
we celebrate tonight. Neither of us said it, but her good news is merely a
break in the clouds — a brief spell of sunshine before the rain returns.
I did tell her I was pleased, though, and I am. The flexi-hours deal with
her new job frees me from the school run, and she’ll no longer share an
office with her mistake. However, if ever there was a benefit to my
pessimism, it’s that I’m always looking out for the sting in the tail. My wife,
for some reason, hasn’t even considered what will happen when Danny
Oswald returns her reference. My plan will hopefully ensure that Chloe’s
reference is glowing rather than damning.
But, my wife will never know I had a hand in it.
I don’t want her to know because going out on a limb might imply I’ve
forgiven her, and I haven’t. Perhaps my thinking is a little clearer, but I’m
nowhere near ready to process Chloe’s night with another man. At some
point, I need to ask her the question Mungo suggested: why? It’s virtually
impossible to imagine how knowing the answer to that question will lessen
the dull ache in my chest, but who knows?
I start the car and set off.
My plan involves another visit to the head office of Loxford Commercial
Furniture. This time, however, I’m confident I’ll leave with a contented
smile on my face because, if the conversation pans out as I expect, Chloe
won’t have to worry about her reference, and Rick Bingley will be
unemployed. In an ideal world, I’d love nothing more than to see Rick
arrested and charged for what he’s done, but this world is far from ideal, as
this year has taught me.
I use the journey to plan a strategy. Everything hinges on a five-minute
chat in Danny Oswald’s office, with the door shut. But, after our last
encounter, I suspect his receptionist now has strict orders not to let me
anywhere near his office again.
 As I close in on my destination, it occurs that maybe my motives extend
beyond references and punishment. If Chloe hadn’t taken the job at
Loxford’s, she’d never have attended that fateful conference. I accept it’s a
stretch but hurting the company, or even inflicting a dent or two, is some
measure of retribution. I’ve given up asking Chloe to confirm who I should
aim my anger at, so I’ll have to settle on seeking revenge on his employer.
I’ll take it.
I pull into the car park at the front of the office block and switch off the
engine. Any lingering doubts are soon swept aside by a burst of adrenaline
when I remind myself of the three reasons I’m here.
Stoked, I get out of the car and stride towards the main entrance. Through
the doors, turning left, I bound up the stairs to the second floor and barge
through the door towards the finance department. When I envisaged my
plan, I imagined the shock on the receptionist’s face as I stormed past her,
but the desk is empty. I continue on, until I reach Oswald’s office door.
Without knocking, I push it open and enter.
Danny Oswald is behind his desk, talking on the phone. As I close the
door behind me, he glares up and tells whoever’s on the line he’ll have to
call them back. That done, he slams the handset down.
“What the fuck do you want?” he barks, getting to his feet.
“A few minutes of your time.”
“I don’t think so. Get out, or I’ll call the police.”
“You could call the police, but then I’ll have to explain why I’m here …
and I don’t think that would reflect well on you or your company.”
“What are you wittering on about?”
“I’m here because we need to discuss one of your employees. Well, two
really: one recently fired and one you’re about to fire.”
His glare intensifies. “Last warning, and then I’ll throw you out myself.”
“Do that, and you won’t find out what your old school buddy, Rick
Bingley, has been up to.”
Oswald’s eyes narrow as I try to maintain an air of confidence.
“Rick? What the fuck has he got to do with anything?”
“He’s got quite a lot to do with damaging the reputation of this business.
You know how it is these days, Danny — one mention of a scandal on
social media and before you know it, customers are leaving in droves.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about, but either get to the point or piss
off.”
 “Fair enough,” I reply, taking a step forward. “Rick Bingley is a sexual
predator, and you’re going to fire him … today.”
To my surprise, Oswald reacts with a grin and sits back in his chair.
“If you’re referring to that crazy ex-wife of his,” he says, “the bitch
stitched him up.”
“That might be Rick’s version of events, but it’s not the truth. He set up a
camera in his sister-in-law’s bedroom while she was staying with them. His
wife found hundreds of videos on Rick’s laptop.”
“Who told you that?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does. If you heard it from his ex, you’re a bigger mug than you look.
Rachel set up the camera because she thought Rick was knobbing the sister,
the paranoid cow. She was looking for an excuse to divorce him so she
could bleed the poor bastard dry, and she used that as evidence in the
divorce hearing.”
“Are you kidding?” I snort. “I know you’re mates, but you don’t
seriously believe that do you?”
“If it’s not the truth, why did Rachel only use her so-called evidence in
the divorce court? She could have reported Rick to the police, but they’d
have done a proper investigation and rumbled her plan.”
He might be wrong, but my problem is that he doesn’t know he’s wrong.
Rick has obviously convinced Danny Oswald that his version of events is
the real truth, and nothing I say is likely to change that. I need to bring in
exhibit two.
“If you’re dumb enough to believe Rick’s lies about what happened with
his sister-in-law, that’s on you, but can you explain how, eleven days ago,
he took a woman back to his flat, spiked her drink, and then tried taking her
clothes off? If she hadn’t come around at the last moment, who knows what
that sick bastard would have done to her.”
“Do you believe everything a woman tells you?”
“Depends on the woman.”
“You’re talking to the wrong women, then, because Rick told me about
that bird. They were on the bed, getting heavy when she suddenly darted
out of the room to chuck her guts up. She was pissed, you muppet, not
drugged.”
“You’re unbelievable. You don’t see a pattern with Rick?”
 “He’s a bit of a Jack the Lad, but he’s harmless. If you ask me, he’s the
one who’s got reason to be narked, not these bloody women.”
My leverage slipping away, I swallow hard and switch to bluff mode.
“I guess we’ll have to let social media judge that. If he’s innocent, I’m
sure no one will share the post.”
“What post?”
“The one that’ll likely appear on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram this
evening, relaying the facts of what Rick did. It’ll no doubt mention that he’s
also an employee of Loxford’s.”
Oswald’s glare returns, but he remains silent, probably weighing up the
likely damage such a post would inflict on him, his career, and the company
as a whole.
“But,” I continue. “I’m willing to cut a deal.”
“A deal?”
“Yeah. I won’t breathe a word about Rick’s perverse behaviour in return
for two assurances. One, you sack him immediately, and two, you provide
Chloe with a glowing reference when the time comes.”
Oswald leans back in his chair, stretching out his legs. He keeps me
waiting for a verdict.
“I’ve got a counter offer,” he finally replies.
“I’m listening.”
“One, fuck off. Two, fuck off and tell that wife of yours that our deal is
off.”
My face immediately betrays any hope of continuing the bluff strategy.
“Eh? What deal?”
“Aww, didn’t she tell you?” he replies, mockingly.
“Tell me what?”
“Chloe called this morning and begged me not to kill her career with a
shitty reference. As it happens, she caught me in a good mood, so I said
we’d confirm she was punctual, never off ill, and did the job she was paid
to do.”
Realisation strikes. I haven’t put my foot in it, as such, but stamped up
and down on my wife’s agreement.
“That ain’t happening, now,” Oswald continues. “And if you decide to
share your poisonous gossip, our lawyers will take you to the cleaners. You
do realise how expensive defamation suits can be, right?”
Checkmate.
 “Err, just hold on a sec,” I bluster. “This was my idea — Chloe doesn’t
even know I’m here, so there’s no need to drag her into it.”
“I didn’t drag her into it. You did.”
“But, what if I’m right about Rick? You don’t know for certain that he’s
not lying, do you?”
“I’ve known Rick for thirty-odd years, and he’s always had my back.
Who do you think I’m more likely to believe, dickhead?”
“Even if it puts women in danger?”
“Get over yourself,” he sneers. “You liberal types are all the same. If
women want equality, they’ve gotta take the rough with the smooth. Ship
up or ship the fuck out, I say.”
“Rough? You mean, treat people like shit and then blame them when they
finally snap?”
“Your missus couldn’t handle the pressure. That’s on her.”
Oswald then checks his watch and stands up.
“We’re done. Get out.”
“I’ll leave if you promise not to mess up Chloe’s job hopes. She doesn’t
deserve that.”
He steps around the desk and stands directly in front of me.
“I said, get out.”
When people look at me, I’m sure they see a mild-mannered, slightly
soft, thirty-something tech geek. Maybe I am, superficially, but not at heart.
There lurks the kid who grew up on the rough side of town. The kid whose
dad pissed off, leaving him with a barely functioning alcoholic mother. That
kid is still there, still bitter, and still more than capable of looking after
himself.
“Make me.”
Oswald’s nostrils flare as he assesses his options. He then steps back
towards the sanctuary of his desk. My best guess is that he intends to call
the police, or at least make me think he’s prepared to call the police.
My guess is proven wholly inaccurate when Oswald suddenly and
unexpectedly swings a fist towards my head. Perhaps I should have seen it
coming, but age and a lack of necessity have dulled my street senses. The
punch catches me in the mouth, but it’s far from the hardest I’ve ever taken.
It’s enough to cut my bottom lip, though. The tang of blood reaches my
tongue at the same moment my brain registers the pain as manageable.
 If I learned anything from my misspent youth, it’s that fights are rarely
won with the first punch. I don’t want Danny Oswald to know that, though.
I cover my mouth with my left hand and stumble back a step. For extra
effect, I let out a couple of pained yelps.
“I warned you,” Oswald snarls. “Now, get out before I finish the job.”
Almost cowering, I pose no threat. That’s the only reason my assailant
has let his guard down and is now standing with his hands on his hips. To
confirm my defeat I hold up my hand as a sign of surrender. When I’m sure
Oswald is ready to light a victory cigar, I spring up and slam my right fist
into his rib cage.
The emotional release is spectacular, as is the accompanying rush of
endorphins.
As Oswald hunches forward, one hand clutching his ribs, I follow up
with a deft hook-come-jab that connects sweetly with the left side of his
jaw. He collapses like a cheap umbrella, flopping back against the wall. I
doubt he’ll get up and continue our scrap. Battle won; I should walk away. I
can’t.
As I look down on Danny Oswald, I no longer see him as an overweight
arsehole, a bully, and a bloody awful judge of character — I see him as a
proxy for the man who destroyed my marriage.
“Get up,” I growl.
He mumbles something, but it’s gibberish.
“Not such a big man now, are we, Danny?”
There’s fear in his eyes, and I’d wager it’s because Oswald can see the
intent in mine. I need to unleash weeks of pent-up pain; let someone else
endure the hurt I’ve suffered.
The red mist returns, but the pink edges are now black, the rage well and
truly triggered. I ball my fists and take a step back, ready to deliver the
beating Danny Oswald deserves.
“Stop!”
The voice is unexpected, but it’s not unfamiliar. I spin around, intent on
telling Mungo to fuck off and mind his own business. The only flaw in my
plan is a still-closed door and the complete absence of the man whose voice
I just heard.
 38
Sitting in the car, the adrenalin has all but left my system. Now, I can
feel the thick lip and the bruised knuckles, not to mention the growing sense
of confusion. In my enraged state, did my mind play a trick on me? Even
now, barely a few minutes after the event, it’s a blur.
My phone rings. Chloe.
“Where are you?” she asks.
I glance at the dashboard clock. I should have arrived home forty minutes
ago.
“I, err … I had to stop off and deal with something. I’ll be back shortly.”
“Is everything okay? You sound distant.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
“Right, see you … wait. Is Mungo there?”
“Do you want to speak to him?”
“No. I just want to know if he’s at home.”
“He’s in the lounge with Finn. They’re watching another episode of that
dinosaur documentary.”
That confirms it — I’ve officially lost my mind. Mungo is at least half an
hour away, so I’m now hearing voices in my head. It has to be stress
related, surely, and if anyone is overdue a nervous breakdown, it’s me.
I end the call with a promise I’ll be home soon. Chloe seemed in good
spirits, almost certainly because she’s managed to escape the misogynistic
confines of Loxford’s and landed a job where she’ll be treated with respect
— all within forty-eight hours.
But I’ve royally fucked that up.
I’ve wanted to punish Chloe for what she did, and in some twisted way,
this is on her. If she hadn’t lied to me, or indeed had sex with another man, I
wouldn’t be here. Granted, I let the situation get out of hand, and maybe my
retaliation was a little excessive, but …
My shoulders slump. I’m kidding myself.
“What have you done?” I mumble. “You bloody idiot!”
The guilt soon takes hold, and I get an insight into Chloe’s burden over
the last few months. I’ve not exactly enjoyed the shitstorm of negative
emotions since that day in the park, but I’d happily trade anger and
resentment for the heft of guilt. God, what I wouldn’t give to turn back the
clock.
I sit for a few minutes, weighing up my options. When all is said and
done, it would be hypocritical to do anything other than tell Chloe the truth.
She’s going to lose her shit, but what else can I do?
Fate decided, I start the car.
I’m about to disengage the handbrake when a figure suddenly appears at
my window and taps the glass. I look up at the woman, and it takes a
second to realise we’ve met before — Danny Oswald’s receptionist. Unsure
of her motives, I lower the window a couple of inches.
“I’m glad I caught you,” she says, slightly out of breath. “You’re Chloe’s
husband, yeah?”
Not the question I expected.
“Err, I am.”
“Why did you lie and say you were someone else?”
“I wanted to speak to Danny, and I wasn’t sure he’d see me if I told him
the truth.”
The receptionist glances furtively over her shoulder towards the main
entrance before leaning closer to the window. I lower it fully.
“I don’t have long,” she says. “Danny just chucked his keys on my desk
and demanded I fetch a packet of painkillers from his car. Can you pass a
message on to Chloe for me?”
“Sure.”
“Tell her that if she decides to take the company to an employment
tribunal, me and the other girls will back her up.”
“Why would she take the company to an employment tribunal?”
“Unfair dismissal, for starters.”
It strikes me that throwing hot coffee at a colleague is reasonable grounds
for dismissal, and my wife probably doesn’t have a leg to stand on.
“I think Chloe is keen to move on and forget she ever worked here.”
The receptionist’s shoulders sag.
“Fair enough,” she says with an air of resignation. “In Chloe’s shoes, I’d
probably want to forget about this place, too. Still, tell her she’ll always be
our hero for throwing coffee in that tosser’s face. It’s no less than he
deserved.”
 Up until now, I hadn’t given much thought to the coffee incident, and, on
Mungo’s advice, I’ve not even revealed to Chloe that I know about it. The
receptionist, though, just confirmed that my wife threw a mug of coffee at a
male colleague. For Chloe to act so out of character, she must have had
good reason, and the first that comes to mind is some kind of lover’s tiff.
A plausible story slowly evolves in my head.
Two colleagues enjoy a night of sex at a company conference, and then
one of them decides it was a mistake while the other is keen on a repeat.
Maybe it was Chloe, or perhaps it was him. Either way, it’s not beyond the
realms of possibility that the conflict culminated in the coffee incident.
I lean my forearm on the windowsill and try to act casual. If I’m discreet
about it, maybe the chatty receptionist will reveal the name I’ve been trying
to extract from Chloe for two months.
“Has he always been such a tosser?” I ask.
“As long as I’ve worked here, yeah.”
“And you think he deserved more than a cup of coffee in the face?”
“Too bloody right. If he’s not ogling the women in the office, he’s trying
to touch us up, the dirty old git. Did Chloe tell you the nickname we gave
him?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Ten-Hands.”
I’ve heard that nickname before, but I can’t remember who said it or who
it related to.
“Ten-Hands?”
“Yeah, because if he corners you in the staffroom or the lift, it’s like
having five pairs of hands coming at you.”
The receptionist glances over her shoulder again.
“I’d better get back,” she says. “Wish Chloe the best of luck from me,
will you?”
“Sure … sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Amy.”
“Right. Will do, Amy.”
As she turns to leave, my memory finally retrieves a file from the
pointless facts archive. Barely a heartbeat later, it tallies that fact with the
information I’ve just gleaned.
“Shit,” I gasp.
Amy, already trotting back to the office, turns around.
 “Sorry? Did you say something?” she calls back.
I didn’t say anything she needed to hear, but I do need her confirmation.
“Is the man in question aware of his nickname?”
“Dunno,” she shrugs. “But knowing Rick, he’d probably think it’s all a
big joke.”
Amy continues on her way while I sit motionless in my seat, staring into
space.
In a scene not unlike previous business meetings where I’m
daydreaming, and suddenly someone mentions my name, a rush of panic
clears the fog.
If my theory is correct, and the coffee incident was a lover’s tiff, that
would mean … Rick and Chloe?
It’s so ridiculous I inadvertently snort a laugh. Chloe would never sleep
with Rick, would she?
No matter how hard I try to force the narrative, it just doesn’t fit.
Although it had slipped my mind, it was Chloe who told me about Rick’s
behaviour in the office and his nickname amongst the female staff. Now I
come to think of it, why would she sleep with any of the men at Loxford’s if
they’re anything like Danny Oswald or Rick Bingley?
Why?
Why?
Why?
I could sit in the car for another hour, ask myself a thousand times, and
I’d still reach the same conclusion — she wouldn’t. But if she didn’t sleep
with one of her colleagues, who did she sleep with?
Courtesy of Mungo’s influence, my mind drifts in a different direction,
towards an entirely separate question: why would she sleep with anyone at
all?
It’s not a question I can answer and quickly dismiss it. My wife had sex
with someone that night, and for reasons I don’t understand, she refuses to
tell me who that someone is.
I puff out a sigh so long that it creates a small patch of mist on the
windscreen. I’m no closer to an answer now than I was two months ago but
maybe, just maybe, the emotional winds have changed direction. Before, I
was angry. Now, I’m perplexed. It’s akin to having an itch in the very centre
of my back, and no matter which way I approach, it remains frustratingly
out of reach.
 Whatever it is, perhaps it’s part of Mungo’s mythical jigsaw.
I pull out of the parking bay and head towards the main road. Rather than
focus my thoughts on the same stale questions I’ve already spent far too
long trying to answer, I consider a fresh question: why did Chloe throw
coffee at Rick?
My wife would describe herself as passive; the kind of person who goes
out of their way to avoid confrontation. I’ve never known her completely
lose her cool. Why would she jeopardise our primary source of income by
assaulting her boss’s best mate? What could Rick have said that prompted
her to act so out of character?
The obvious answer would be to ask Chloe but, for reasons I don’t
understand, I can’t rely on her to tell the truth. She lied about resigning
from Loxford’s, so is she likely to reveal what instigated the incident with
Rick? If the last few months are anything to go by, such a question is more
likely to spark another argument, or she’ll offer up an answer I can’t
validate.
The only other person who knows exactly what happened is possibly the
last man I want to talk to. Needs must, though.
I come to a stop at a set of red traffic lights and reach for my phone,
intent on calling Rick. As I scroll through my contacts list, I pass a recent
addition to that list. It then occurs that I really don’t know anything about
Rick Bingley. He lied about his marriage, his divorce, and what happened
that night with Amber, but most concerning of all he chose not to mention
that my wife threw a mug of coffee at him. Why would he keep quiet about
that?
Rick is no more likely to tell me the truth than Chloe, but maybe his ex-
wife might shed some light on the man himself, and his motives for lying. I
tap the call icon, and a ringtone peals from the car’s speakers.
“Hi, Jake,” Rachel answers. “What can I do for you?”
“Hey, I was wondering if you’re home at the moment?”
“Just walked through the door. Why?”
“You know what we discussed last night after you returned from your
baby shower?”
“My sham of a marriage?”
“Yes, but specifically Rick.”
“What about him?”
 “It’s a bit convoluted to discuss over the phone, so I was hoping I could
pop over shortly and have a quick chat with you.”
“Sure. How long before you get here?”
“Within thirty minutes, I reckon.”
“In which case, I’ll see you soon.”
Soon turns out to be twenty minutes, and, conscious I told Chloe I
wouldn’t be long, I hurry up the front path to Rachel’s door. When she
opens it, her greeting isn’t quite what I expected.
“Um, are you okay, Jake? Your lip looks a bit swollen.”
“It’s nothing. I had a slight disagreement with the fridge door, and the
door won.”
Seemingly satisfied with my explanation, Rachel invites me through to
the kitchen as Alfie is watching a movie in the lounge, apparently.
We skim past the small talk and my host invites me to sit at the table.
“You’ve got me intrigued,” she says. “And, if I’m honest, a little bit
worried.”
“Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about.”
“There’s always something to be worried about where my ex-husband is
concerned.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he’s trouble with a capital T.”
“So I’m discovering.”
“Which is why you’re here?”
“Pretty much.”
I don’t want to burden Rachel with too much detail, so I spin a half-truth,
telling her that a friend’s wife happens to work for Loxford’s and she had a
minor altercation with Rick. I add that I’m trying to help that mate with
some solid facts in case the situation escalates.
“It doesn’t surprise me,” Rachel scoffs. “Loxford’s is a cesspit.”
“That much I’ve established.”
“If your mate’s wife had asked me, I’d have warned her against working
there. I saw it first-hand when I went to the Christmas party shortly after I
married Rick. The managing director was all over some poor office junior
half his age, and the rest of the male staff were no better, eyeing up
anything in a dress and making lewd comments all night. I never went to
another company function after that.”
“I understand things haven’t improved.”
 “Stands to reason, and it explains why my ex-husband is still gainfully
employed. Rick would be the first out the door if they had any intention of
changing the toxic work environment.”
“Sadly, he’s not the only one. My mate mentioned Danny Oswald, and
apparently, he’s no better than Rick.”
“I don’t know him that well, but I’d bet my mortgage he’s nowhere near
as bad as Rick.”
“Okay, maybe not as bad. I don’t think Oswald set up a spy camera in his
sister-in-law’s bedroom.”
“Maybe not, but Rick’s perverted hobby was only the tip of his
deplorable iceberg. I can’t even begin to tell you how much misery that man
has caused me.”
The bitterness of her experience comes across in Rachel’s voice and
furrowed forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I respond. “I didn’t mean to drag up the past.”
“You have nothing to apologise for, but if you want my advice, tell your
friend’s wife to get out of Loxford’s. Whatever disagreement she’s had with
Rick, experience tells me it won’t end well for her if she goes up against
him.”
“Because Danny Oswald will back him up?”
“No, because Rick is a nasty piece of work. If you knew half of what I
know about him, you’d already be back in your car, calling your mate and
telling his wife to quit first thing in the morning.”
I realise it’s not bitterness I detected in Rachel’s voice but dread.
“Um, if there’s something I need to know, about Rick, please tell me.”
She sits back and stares at the mug as if willing the tea to magically turn
into wine.
“I don’t know where to begin,” she eventually responds. “But you need
to know what kind of man he is.”
“I’d appreciate it, and it goes without saying that I won’t repeat anything
you tell me.”
“Okay, I’ll start with Rick’s background — facts I was unaware of when
I walked up the aisle to marry him.”
“I’m listening.”
“Back in the nineties, he was a lead member of The Red Army. You
heard of them?”
“The ultra-wing of Aldervale fans?”
 “Correct, although they were basically a hooligan group with more
interest in violence than football.”
“I’ve heard stories, but I understood the membership petered out in the
late nineties.”
“I don’t know about that, but I do know that Rick served six months in a
young offender’s facility for aggravated assault after he attacked an
opposition fan with a broken bottle. I wish I could say that he learned his
lesson, but right up until his early thirties, Rick was involved in several
other violent incidents and spent almost two years behind bars.”
“Bloody hell. I had no idea.”
“Trust me, Jake, neither did I, otherwise, I’d never have agreed to our
first date. But, Rick is the consummate liar, which is probably why he’s
such a good salesman. I honestly had no clue what kind of man I was
getting involved with.”
“He didn’t … I mean, he wasn’t violent to you or Alfie, was he?”
“He had a temper, but he never physically hurt Alfie or me — I’d have
killed him with my bare hands if he’d touched my son. But, I had no real
reason to question his character until the incident with my sister.”
“What a way to find out.”
“If only that had been the end, but that’s when I first discovered what
kind of man I’d married. I won’t bore you with the details but it’s fair to say
that Rick didn’t go gracefully after I discovered what he’d been up to. I put
up with months of threats and intimidation, and he only backed down after I
went to court and got a restraining order.”
“Shit. It got that bad?”
“Yes, but I hoped the restraining order would be the end of it. Months
passed, and I didn’t hear so much as a peep from Rick. Eventually, the
divorce came through, and the court awarded me the house and full custody
of Alfie, although that was always likely to be the outcome considering
Rick’s history. As time went on, I began rebuilding my life, and I even went
on a few dates with a guy I met online. Sadly, that’s when events suddenly
escalated.”
“How so?”
“The guy I was seeing, Dean, dropped me off after we’d been out for
dinner one evening. When he arrived home, two blokes in balaclavas
appeared from the shadows and started beating him with baseball bats.
After they’d broken four of Dean’s ribs and his right arm, one of the thugs
said they’d be back to finish the job if he continued seeing me.”
I don’t want to ask the obvious, and Rachel takes my silence as a cue to
continue.
“Dean called the next day to tell me what happened and then he
confirmed we were no more.”
“Didn’t the police get involved?”
“Sure, but there wasn’t a shred of evidence linking the attack to Rick, and
he had a rock-solid alibi for the time it took place.”
“Just because he wasn’t there doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved.”
“My sentiments exactly, but the police weren’t interested. Anyway, I
waited almost a year before I tried dating again, and then I met Jamie. He
was a really nice guy, but after our third date, as he was driving home, a
stolen car ran him off the road. He escaped with a few cuts and bruises, but
he received a similar threat the next day, via a note through his door — stay
away from Rachel. Jamie heeded that warning and ended it. I haven’t dared
date anyone since.”
“When was the last time you saw or heard from Rick?”
“Well over a year ago. I’ve blocked him on every social media platform,
and the restraining order is still in place, but that doesn’t mean he won’t
resurface at some point. Rick is still a nasty piece of work, Jake, and if I
were you, I’d strongly warn your friend’s wife to walk away before it’s too
late.”
I nod back, but I fear it’s already too late for me. Whatever happened
between Rick and Chloe, I need to know the truth, no matter what the risk.
 39
How I made it home without crashing the car will remain one of life’s
mysteries. My poor brain ached within minutes of leaving Rachel’s house,
and now, as I pull up on our driveway, I wouldn’t be in the least bit
surprised if it suddenly burst.
Can a brain burst? I’ve no idea.
I spent the entirety of the short journey trying to make sense of what I
learned. The reason I’m so confused is because there’s too much I don’t
know. Of all the questions begging to be answered, though, one stands out:
what happened between Chloe and Rick?
It’s time to get some answers, to get to the truth, but now I’m motivated
by concern rather than anger. There’s also the small matter of my altercation
with Danny Oswald to discuss. All I can do is explain, apologise, and hope
my honesty is reciprocated.
I open the front door, hang my coat up, and head through to the kitchen. I
need a beer more than I’ve ever needed one and make straight for the
fridge. Within a few seconds, Chloe breezes in.
“I thought we’d order in a takeaway for dinner,” she says. “My treat.”
She then notices my fat lip and probably traces of the blood I can still
taste.
“My God, Jake! What happened to your lip?”
“It’s nothing but forget my lip. You and I need to talk.”
“About?”
“About the truth.”
Her reaction is no different to the dozens of other times we’ve tried to
talk through our problems: she closes her eyes, and then her body deflates
like a punctured airbed.
“I don’t want another argument,” I add. “I only want to understand what
the hell is going on.”
“Going on?”
“We’ll talk in a minute. Pour a glass of something strong while I say a
quick hello to our son.”
I enter the lounge to find Mungo and Finn sitting on the sofa, watching
TV. Finn leaps up and gives me a quick hug before spewing a raft of newly-
acquired dinosaur facts.
“I’m very impressed, mate,” I reply once he’s run out of steam. “I just
need a quick word with Mungo in the hallway.”
Finn doesn’t question why and returns to his spot on the sofa. Mungo
follows me out to the hallway, where I ask a question I can scarcely believe
I’m willing to ask.
“Would you mind taking Finn out for an hour? There’s a cafe opposite
the park so maybe grab something to eat while you’re out.”
“Would I mind?”
“Yes.”
“I would not mind.”
“Thank you.”
I scoot back to the lounge doorway and tell Finn to get ready because
Mungo is taking him for a burger and a milkshake, but only if he hurries.
He responds by getting ready in record time. I then usher them out the door.
On the path, Mungo stops and looks up at me.
“We will talk later.”
“Will we? What about?”
“Every story must eventually reach an end, Jake. We must ensure yours is
a positive one.”
“Err, okay.”
The advice delivered, he takes Finn’s hand, and they continue on their
way. I can’t believe I’ve just sent my son off with the strangest of strangers,
but something tells me it’s the right thing to do. I close the door and steel
myself.
Back in the kitchen, Chloe is at the table, nursing a glass of wine and
looking solemn. I sit opposite, checking there aren’t any heavy or sharp
objects within grabbing distance.
“So,” I begin. “There’s no way of dressing this up, so I might as well spit
it out. After work, I paid Danny Oswald a visit, and during our conversation
in his office, things got a little heated. Punches were thrown and … that’s
about it.”
Chloe stares back at me, open-mouthed. I suspect she’s working through
a long list of questions but struggling to air any of them.
“How … why … what the hell, Jake?”
“Let me explain.”
I take a deep breath and begin my pre-prepared confession.
 “On Tuesday after work I went to see Danny.”
“Tuesday?”
“Yes, today was the second visit.”
“I don’t understand why you went to see him at all, never mind twice.”
“The first time was because I … I’d got it into my head that Danny was
… that he was the man you slept with.”
“Oh, God,” Chloe groans, looking up to the ceiling.
“I know I shouldn’t have,” I continue. “But, I couldn’t help myself. I put
two and two together, and … and now I know it wasn’t him.”
“So why did you go back there today?”
“I was concerned Danny might scupper your new job with an
unfavourable reference. I had a plan to ensure that never happened.”
“I’d already spoken to Danny … this morning! It was already sorted,
Jake.”
“I know that now, but I didn’t earlier.”
“And, did this plan of yours involve trading blows?”
“Well, no, not initially. As I said, things got out of hand, but he threw the
first punch.”
“You hit him back?”
“Only twice. He’ll live.”
“You absolute twat,” she seethes. “Why couldn’t you stay out of it?”
“I’ll take my share of the blame for this, Chloe, but don’t play the
innocent. You told me you’d resigned, but Danny said you were fired for
throwing a mug of coffee at one of your colleagues. What the hell was that
all about, and why did you lie to me?”
The question posed, I take a sip of lager straight from the can, forgetting
my lip injury. I wince, but there’s little sympathy in the room.
“I told you I resigned because I didn’t want to worry you,” Chloe replies.
“Fair enough, but what I don’t get is why you threw a mug of coffee at
one of your colleagues.”
“What do you think it’s like working for a company where all the senior
management are male, and most are sexist arseholes? I lost my temper with
one of those arseholes, and it just happened, okay.”
“But, you never told me it was Rick Bingley, and strangely enough, he
hasn’t mentioned it either. Why is that?”
Her face suddenly white, my wife grabs the wine glass and empties it.
 “It was nothing,” she then replies, unconvincingly. “Rick said something
that pissed me off, and I lost it for a second. I apologised, he accepted the
apology, and we both agreed never to mention it again.”
“That’s the truth, is it?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“Can we just forget it?”
“I’d love nothing more than to forget it, but I can’t.”
“Please, for the sake of both our sanities, let it go.”
“I’ve already let too much go, Chloe, but that stops now. We will never
rebuild our marriage unless we’re completely honest with one another.”
“I am being honest.”
Ordinarily, I’d bite on her lie like a terrier and shake it relentlessly, but
that tactic is partly responsible for us being in this situation.
“Do you know where I went after work?” I ask.
“You said, to see Danny.”
“Yes, but I went somewhere else afterwards. I paid Rachel a quick visit.”
“Rachel, as in Alfie’s mum? Why?”
“Last week, when I picked up Finn from Rachel’s, we got chatting, and
the subject of marriage came up.”
“Please tell me you didn’t air our problems with Rachel.”
“No, nothing specific but that first time she came by to drop Finn off, she
could tell you’d been crying. It was after one of our rows. I guess she had a
sixth sense because the next time I saw her, she asked if things were okay.”
“It’s none of her business.”
“True, but she was only being friendly. Anyway, she said that whatever
problems we faced, they couldn’t be as insurmountable as those she faced
in her marriage.”
“What problems?”
“Long story short, Rachel’s younger sister moved in with them
temporarily, and her husband set up a hidden camera in the bedroom so he
could spy on her. Rachel found a load of videos on his laptop, mainly of the
sister in various states of undress.”
“That’s sick,” Chloe snorts. “No wonder she divorced him.”
“Yeah, and it’s fair to say she’s still bitter about it. When I was over there
yesterday, I nipped to the downstairs loo and spotted a framed document
next to the sink — Rachel’s decree absolute.”
 “I’d probably have done the same, but I don’t see why Rachel’s marriage
problems have anything to do with us.”
“Up until I read that decree absolute, I’d have agreed with you. Then, I
noticed the husband’s name — Richard Bingley.”
I wait for the penny to drop. It seems to defy gravity as Chloe stares back
at me, her eyes wide but strangely vacant.
“Rick Bingley,” I say, emphasising his first name. “As in, my so-called
mate and Danny Oswald’s old school buddy. Can you believe he and Rachel
were married?”
Judging by my wife’s bewildered expression, I’d guess not. I continue
with my explanation.
“I figured that Danny wouldn’t want the company name associated with
Rick’s perverted behaviour, and that was my leverage. I might have
overplayed my hand, though, because he just laughed when I threatened to
share my information about Rick on social media.”
Chloe suddenly stands up. “I need another drink.”
I watch on, somewhat perplexed, as my wife semi-staggers to the fridge
like she’s already necked three bottles of Prosecco. I knew she wouldn’t
respond well to my news, but she seems utterly shell-shocked.
“It gets worse,” I say once Chloe has returned to the table. “As I
discovered this afternoon. Rick has served multiple prison sentences for
violent offences. And, after Rachel divorced him, she had to get a
restraining order to keep him away.”
Chloe’s chin dips further south. She remains silent.
“Worst of all, though, is that the two men Rachel subsequently dated
were both warned off. One was beaten up while the other was run off the
road on his way home.”
The fact my wife hasn’t responded to my revelations is telling. Anyone
would be appalled at hearing that one of their colleagues was convicted for
multiple acts of violence and then threatened his own wife to such a degree
that she had to seek a restraining order. Anyone but Chloe, it seems.
“Judging by your lack of reaction, I’m guessing you already knew,
right?”
Her head moves a fraction, but it’s impossible to tell if it’s a nod or a
shake.
“Chloe? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” comes the stilted reply.
 I’ve been married long enough to know that the phrase I’m fine usually
means the complete opposite is true. To add credence to my theory, Chloe
begins gulping back her wine like it’s water, only stopping once the glass is
empty.
“What happened between you and Rick?” I ask. “And, if you want us to
move past this, no more lies.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and then leans forward, burying her face in
her hands. Her shoulders then shudder as the first sob breaks the silence.
Her anguish builds to such a level it conjures up an image of my absolute
worst nightmare — a bereaved parent.
I reach over and place my hand on her arm.
“Talk to me,” I say gently. “Whatever it is, we can fix it.”
Long seconds pass until she lifts her head. With her eyes still streaming
and cheeks red, I can’t find any emotion other than pity.
“I’m … I’m so sorry,” she wails. “I … I … I did it to protect you.”
“Did what?”
She continues to sob but eventually catches her breath. I jump up and
grab a sheet of kitchen roll.
“Here,” I say, passing it to Chloe. “Take a few deep breaths.”
She slowly wipes her eyes, and some semblance of composure returns.
“I’ve been so stupid,” she then sniffs. “Please forgive me.”
 40
Chloe sits back and looks up at the ceiling as if seeking guidance from a
higher place. She then refocuses on her confession.
“I need you to promise me something,” she says. “I want you to promise
me you won’t leave the house tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning to, but what difference does it make if I leave the
house or not?”
“It matters. Promise me, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Alright,” I shrug. “I promise.”
“I’m serious, Jake. I want you to swear on Finn’s life that you won’t
leave the house until tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, okay. I swear on Finn’s life that I won’t leave the house until
tomorrow morning. Satisfied?”
Chloe adjusts her position in the chair, resting her forearms on the table.
“What I’m about to tell you will make you angry … very angry. Please,
try and keep a lid on it until I’ve finished.”
“I’ll try.”
“Right, so … the conference. I should have told you this two months ago,
but …”
Whatever excuse Chloe intended to offer, it doesn’t make it to her mouth.
“Just tell me, please.”
After a lengthy pause, my plea prompts the faintest of nods.
“We had dinner, and then everyone congregated in the bar. I only
intended to stay for a few, but I got cornered by the MD, and he kept plying
me with drinks. When he realised I was happily married, he got bored and
set off in pursuit of some poor girl from the marketing department. I’d had
three glasses of wine, and I was finishing the fourth when Rick appeared. I
thanked him for telling you about the job in the first place and for putting in
a good word with Danny.”
“Go on.”
“I don’t know how we got onto the subject, but he told me about his
marriage failing, although not the version you just relayed. He painted
himself as the victim, and although he never mentioned her by name, he
made Rachel sound like a complete cow. To be honest, I felt sorry for him,
and that’s the only reason I hung around for another hour, and a whole
bottle of Prosecco. It got to about half-nine, and I told Rick I felt a bit
squiffy and it was time to call it a night. Before I could argue, he said I
should have one for the road. He rushed off to the bar and returned with yet
another large glass of wine.”
“Why didn’t you leave while he was at the bar?”
“I didn’t want to be rude. I know that sounds stupid, but you know how it
is when you’ve had a few — there’s not a lot of rational thought or common
sense.”
“Alright. Carry on.”
“That final glass of wine tipped me over the edge because I went from
tipsy to trashed in almost no time. Everything became a fog after that, but I
vaguely remember Rick helping me back to my room. The next thing I
know, it’s Saturday morning, and I’m lying in bed, naked, with the mother
of all hangovers.”
Chloe pauses for a few seconds, screwing her eyes shut. “That’s when he
walked out of the en-suite,” she blurts.
My blood runs cold.
“Who?” I rasp.
“Rick.”
I open my mouth but can’t find any words. Chloe, however, does.
“He thanked me for a great night and said it would be for the best if we
kept what happened between us, because he’d hate to be responsible for
destroying a marriage. I couldn’t speak, and he just smiled at me and left. I
didn’t understand what he was talking about, and then the nausea hit me. I
rushed to the bathroom and threw up five or six times before the
convulsions stopped. Then, once I’d managed to crawl onto the loo for a
pee, I realised the worst.”
“The worst?”
“I … I was coming to the end of my period, and I distinctly remember
changing my tampon halfway through the previous evening. I had no
recollection of taking it out, but it’d gone.”
“What? Are you saying … no, dear God.”
Anger, revulsion, confusion. All three emotions converge into a fiery,
white-hot rage. I push the chair away with such force it topples over.
“I’m gonna fucking kill him!” I snarl.
“I haven’t finished. Sit down.”
 “I’ll sit down once that wanker has got what’s coming to him.”
“Jake!” Chloe blasts. “You swore you wouldn’t leave the house, so sit
down and let me finish.”
Breathing like a rodeo bull, I have to grip the edge of the table for fear of
betraying the promise I made. Eventually, I manage to regain control.
“I want to know … I need to know everything.”
My wife nods. I pick the chair up and sit back at the table.
“After I’d stopped dry-heaving, I showered and left the hotel in a hurry.
Then it dawned on me that I couldn’t be certain what had actually
happened, but I wasn’t prepared to take any risks, which is why I searched
for a chemist. You have to understand that my head was a total mess and …
I thought, what if he hadn’t used protection? I panicked because the thought
of being pregnant with his child—”
“Wait a sec,” I interject. “There’s something you don’t know that—”
“No, Jake. I need to tell you everything, and I mean everything.”
As much as I want to share my theories about Rick bastard Bingley,
Chloe’s pleading eyes are reason enough to hold back.
“Okay. Keep going.”
“For the last eight weeks, I’ve been through the worst kind of hell,
believing I cheated on you. Then, on Monday, I was in the staffroom at
work when Rick sauntered in. He said something crass about my breasts,
and it … it pushed me over the edge. I told him that I’d had a gutful of his
sick comments, and I was going to tell our MD that he’d taken advantage
while I was too drunk to say no. He just laughed in my face.”
“He actually laughed?”
“The sick bastard said I’d look like an idiot if I went running to our MD
because nothing happened. Not physically, anyway.”
“Eh?”
“He said he wasn’t into shagging unconscious women or blood sports,
but he did enjoy taking photos which is why he removed my tampon.”
Chloe then reaches across the table to her phone. She unlocks it, and
swipes at the screen a few times before placing it back on the table, facing
me.
“While we were standing in the staffroom, Rick sent me this. It’s one of a
few dozen, apparently.”
There’s no part of me that wants to see what Rick Bingley sent Chloe but
for her sake, I have to. I also know what he did to Rachel’s sister and
Amber, and as much as it pains me, I have to see the evidence. Bracing
myself, I lean forward and confirm my worst fears.
Captured from the foot of an unfamiliar bed, the image shows my wife,
naked, lying on her back with her hand resting provocatively near her groin.
Her head is tilted to the left, so unless you knew otherwise, it would be easy
to assume she’s coyly avoiding the camera rather than unconscious.
“I can’t believe anyone would do something like this,” I respond,
swallowing hard. “I feel sick.”
“It gets worse,” Chloe replies in a low voice. “He also said that if I ever
told anyone, he’d claim we were having an affair, and the photos were
proof. He set them up so you can’t tell I’m unconscious.”
“But … but, he never—”
“No, he didn’t, but he wanted me to think we’d had sex. It was like a
game to him.”
Chloe’s revelation should be a moment of supreme relief, but I’m still a
million miles from relieved.
“He’s so twisted,” Chloe continues. “He thought it was hilarious that for
eight weeks, I truly believed I’d cheated on my husband. He did actually
laugh in my face, and that’s when I grabbed the mug of coffee and threw it
at him.”
Unburdened by the truth, Chloe reaches across the table and grabs my
hand.
“I am so, so sorry that I put you through all that pain and if you want a
divorce, I wouldn’t blame you. What I’ve done is unforgivable.”
I stare back at her, blinking slowly, unable to tie down a single cohesive
thought.
“Talk to me, babe,” Chloe begs. “Please.”
It’s all I can do to swallow the bile in the back of my throat.
“I know you must hate me, Jake, and—”
I hold my hand out to make her stop. I need a moment to put my thoughts
in some kind of order. The first of those thoughts is insidious, deplorable,
but it’s the one I need to air the most.
“He … he drugged you,” I manage to splutter.
“Sorry?”
“Rick. He spiked that last glass of wine. I’ve looked online and there’s a
drug called Rohypnol, and I’d bet my last fiver he slipped that or something
similar in your drink.”
 “Jake, I must have drunk eight or nine large glasses of wine. I’m pretty
sure that’s why I passed out. I’m aware of date-rape drugs but, come on, not
even Rick would sink that low.”
“Yes, he would.”
Chloe still appears unconvinced, but she’s always possessed a naive
streak. She chews her bottom lip for a moment, considering the implications
of my theory.
“No, I think he just took advantage of a drunk woman,” she then says
with a distinct lack of conviction. “I mean, who the hell packs date-rape
drugs for a work conference?”
“A man like Rick Bingley. I can’t be one hundred per cent certain, but I
think what happened to you also happened to another woman.”
Chloe’s confused expression suggests she’s no idea what I’m talking
about. That’s understandable because I’m also guilty of withholding the
whole truth.
“That night we went out to a bar, remember?”
“Yes, you went with him.”
“He guilt-tripped me like he did you, and that’s the only reason I ended
up in Bar KoKo that evening. Anyway, Rick started chatting to a couple of
women while I was in the loo. We had a few drinks, and about an hour later
I left, but Rick was getting pally with one of the women.”
“You left?”
“Yes, I, um … I’d had enough.”
Chloe shoots me a look that suggests we might revisit this part of the
conversation at some point.
“Rick texted me the next day to say that nothing much happened, but a
few days ago, I bumped into one of the women outside Costa. Long story
short, it turns out that her friend, Amber, went back to Rick’s flat. He gave
her a glass of wine, and within a few minutes she felt nauseous and then
passed out. When she woke up, she was lying on a bed, and that sick
bastard was undressing her.”
“Oh my God.”
“She got the hell out of there but not before noticing that Rick had set up
a camera at the end of the bed. I’m no criminologist, but it seems to me that
Rick Bingley has a thing for taking illicit photos of women, and in yours
and Amber’s case, while you were unconscious. That’s why I’m certain he
spiked your drink that evening.”
 Chloe suddenly gets to her feet and makes a beeline for the cupboard.
She returns to the table with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and two tumblers. Her
hand shaking, she fills both halfway before nudging one toward me.
“I can’t believe …” she murmurs. “I think I’m suffering some kind of
PTSD.”
It’s unlikely to be a cure, but Chloe lifts the tumbler to her lips and pours
the bourbon down her throat.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“No, I’m so incensed I might spontaneously combust. It’s one thing to
think you got drunk and some disgusting pig took advantage, but it’s quite
another to know that it was … planned.”
“Listen, I’ll help you get through this, but we must start being honest
with one another.”
“I am being honest.”
“Yes, but … what exactly happened on Monday after you discovered the
truth.”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters, yes.”
“Okay,” she sighs. “After I threw the coffee at Rick, he just stood there,
seething, but then he ran off to tell his mate Danny what happened. I didn’t
hang around to give them the satisfaction of firing me on the spot – I
grabbed my bag and ran out of the building. Halfway home, Danny left a
voicemail message saying he had no choice but to terminate my
employment due to gross misconduct.”
Her explanation is plausible to a point, but it raises a worrying question.
“Let me get this straight,” I reply, calmly. “On Monday afternoon, you
left work, knowing that Rick Bingley had conned you into thinking you’d
slept together?”
“Yes.”
“And today is Thursday.”
“I know what day it is.”
“So, you’ve known the truth for four days, but only now you’re sharing
that fact with me? For fuck sake, Chloe — why didn’t you tell me the
moment you knew the truth?”
“Because … because …”
“Because?”
“I … I was going to tell you, I swear.”
 “When?”
“On Monday evening after Finn had gone to bed but you were so
distracted, so moody.”
“Yes, because on Monday evening, I’d got it into my head that you’d
slept with Danny Oswald, but you could still have told me on Tuesday or
yesterday.”
“On my life, I was going to tell you on Tuesday, but …”
She reaches for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s but then decides against a
refill.
“But?” I prod.
“I can’t tell you. You’ll think I’m insane.”
“This entire chain of events is insane, Chloe. I want to know the truth —
all of it.”
She squeezes her eyes shut again, sits upright, and then puffs a deep
breath. “Mungo told me not to tell you straight away.”
“What?” I cough. “You told Mungo what happened before you told me?”
“Well, no. We didn’t actually have a conversation, as such.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“My explanation won’t make any sense, either.”
We’ve argued too many times at this table of late, but no more. The truth
is in sight, and I need to stay calm.
“The explanation might not make sense, but I want to hear it, please.”
“Promise you won’t laugh or call in the men in white coats.”
“You’ve already had one promise. Don’t push your luck.”
“Okay, I’ll tell you, but you will think I’m insane.”
Not wanting to send her off on another tangent, I remain silent.
“Mungo did warn me not to tell you,” she begins. “In a dream.”
I manage to hold back a snort, but the smirk is a tougher ask, and it
reaches my lips.
“Mungo warned you … in a dream?”
“See,” Chloe strops. “I said you’d think I’m mad.”
“I don’t think you’re mad, but I’m struggling to understand. What exactly
happened in this dream of yours?”
“Calling it a dream isn’t accurate — it was a nightmare in every sense of
the word.”
“How so?”
 “I was … oh, God. I was standing at the edge of an open grave as four
pallbearers lowered a coffin into the ground. The sky was ashen grey and it
was so cold I couldn’t stop shaking. I remember a priest standing at the side
of the grave, reciting a passage from the Bible, but I couldn’t make out
exactly what he was saying. I tried … all I could think about was the cold.”
Whether it’s a conscious decision or not, Chloe crosses her arms as if
trying to warm herself.
“The priest finished, and then he moved to the side, and … and Finn was
standing behind him. I couldn’t understand what was happening or why the
priest bent down and invited our son to grab a handful of soil. I just stood
there, frozen, watching Finn sprinkle soil into the grave.”
“Where was I?”
“Don’t you understand? It was your funeral.”
Again, I’m rendered speechless.
“At some point, Mungo appeared at my side and took my hand. He then
said if I’d only waited a few days before telling you the truth, you would
still be alive.”
“How … what?”
“Mungo showed me what happened, like an out-of-body experience.”
“Showed you what?”
“You, out of your mind with anger, as you arrived at Rick’s flat. The
moment he opened the door, you attacked him. Somehow, he got hold of a
knife and stabbed you. You died in the ambulance on the way to the
hospital.”
Chloe palms a tear from her cheek before continuing.
“Self-defence,” she then gulps.
“Sorry?”
“That’s what the police said — Rick acted in self-defence, so he walked
away without charge.”
Compelling as Chloe’s tale is, I can already see a significant plot hole.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It sounds like a terrible nightmare, but that’s all it
was. If you’d told me on Monday, we could have dealt with it.”
“How?”
“We could have gone to the police.”
“What would I have said, Jake? I got drunk eight weeks ago, and one of
my colleagues took some photos of me in the nude while I was
unconscious. What exactly are the police supposed to do with that?”
 “You weren’t drunk. You were drugged.”
“Possibly drugged,” she counters. “And, up until five minutes ago I had
no reason to believe I was anything other than pissed out of my mind that
night.”
“Yeah, but what about what Rick did to Amber and Rachel’s sister? If
you’d told me the truth on Monday, I’d have …”
“You’d have done what? You didn’t know about Rick being Rachel’s
perverted ex-husband — did you know on Monday what happened with
Amber?”
“No,” I concede.
“Then, there wouldn’t have been any reason to contact the police.”
“Okay, point taken.”
“So, let’s not pretend you don’t know what would have happened.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You’d have lost your temper, stormed out of the house, and
I guarantee you’d have gone straight to Rick’s place, intent on beating the
living daylights out of him. Does that sound about right?”
“Err, no, I’d—”
“Jake,” Chloe cries. “Think back five minutes. You kicked over your
chair, and yelled that you were going to kill him.”
“I, um … okay, okay. Do you blame me?”
“No, of course not — don’t you think I want him to suffer, too? The
difference is I’ve seen how that played out, and even though it was only a
dream, it terrified me. I’ve never been so scared in all my life, Jake. Never.”
I could pick at my wife’s defence, but I don’t, for two reasons. Firstly,
I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted. Secondly, Chloe isn’t the only one
to have imagined my funeral of late. When I think back to that evening at
Horseshoe Bridge, I can’t say what might have happened if Mungo hadn’t
appeared. That thought now terrifies me.
“Can I ask a favour?” Chloe asks, quietly.
“You can ask.”
“Can I have a hug, please?”
I recognise my wife’s request for what it is — an umbrella. The storm is
still raging overhead, but now the truth is out in the open, maybe it’s time
we seek shelter together. I stand up and Chloe doesn’t need any further
prompting as she rushes towards me. Within a few seconds, the tears begin
to flow.
 Time seems to melt away and an awful lot of anger with it. I now know
my wife didn’t cheat on me, but there’s no sense of elation or relief. If
anything, there’s more guilt. What Bingley did to Chloe was beyond
appalling, but I’m not entirely blameless. When I think back over the last
eight weeks, I can’t begin to imagine what Chloe has been through, and
much of her pain has been at my hands. I should have known that she’d
never cheat, but the pessimist in me was only too willing to believe the
worst. Why wouldn’t my wonderful, beautiful wife find someone better and
leave? As Mungo suggested, I’ve done more than enough to push her away
because that’s what happens to the people I care about — they all leave.
Perhaps now is the time to think about the people who’ve stood by me.
I pull my wife tight.
“I’m sorry,” I gulp.
Chloe looks up at me, eyes wet. “For what?”
“For being me. You should never have had to suffer through this alone,
and if I’d been—”
“Don’t you dare try and take any blame for this. How many men do you
think would have left in our situation? Most, I’d bet, but you didn’t. You
had every reason to walk away from our marriage, but you didn’t — you
stayed.”
“Right,” I scoff. “But I tried my best to make you feel bad.”
“No, you tried your best to make Jake Mason feel bad, and that’s what
really hurt me.”
“Well, he’s still feeling bad and probably will do for a while.”
“The worst is behind us, babe, and if the last eight weeks have taught us
anything, it’s that we’re stronger than we ever thought.”
Chloe is absolutely right that we are stronger together, but I don’t know if
the worst is behind us. Somehow, I’ve managed to get through eight weeks
of abject hell, thinking that the woman I love betrayed me. Now, I’m in a
different kind of hell because until Rick Bingley gets what’s coming to him,
I don’t think I can move forward.
 41
It’s closing in on seven in the morning, and the clouds are racing across
the sky as if they’re in a hurry to get somewhere. The scene, bathed in the
rays of a low sun, should be exactly the same as it was the first time I saw it
a few days ago, but it’s not. It’s almost as if two separate artists with
differing styles painted the view from Parson’s Peak, and I’m looking at the
second effort — a watercolour landscape with rolling hills and low-lying
mist. It’s as beautiful as it is tranquil.
“I could sit here all day,” I remark.
“You could,” Mungo replies. “You could sit here all day, every day, if
you so desired.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but everything you say is either vaguely
profound or mystifying.”
“I say what needs to be said and nothing more. It is a pity most humans
are incapable of following my example.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The reason I’m sitting on a bench with Mungo at such an early hour is, in
part, due to a cooling-off period, so to speak. My tumultuous conversation
with Chloe could have continued well into the night, but it ended when
Mungo and Finn returned from the cafe. An hour of vaguely normal family
life ensued until Finn went to bed. Chloe then suggested we could do with a
light-hearted distraction and we watched some comedy series on Netflix.
Within ten minutes, she fell asleep on the sofa, emotionally drained.
With my wife and son asleep, I re-joined Jack at the kitchen table. I
poured two doubles and knocked them back before returning the bottle to
the cupboard. It was just enough alcohol to remove the option of driving
anywhere. More specifically, it removed the option of driving across town
and confronting Rick Bingley.
Alas, the alcohol also stoked my thirst for vengeance, and I spent a long
while fantasising about how it might feel to don a pair of steel-toe-capped
boots and repeatedly kick my wife’s nemesis in the bollocks. As much as
the idea appealed, I concluded that it wouldn’t solve a problem Chloe
refused to even acknowledge as a problem — the photos Bingley captured.
When I raised the subject towards the tail end of our conversation, she said
there was nothing we could do, so why worry about it? In her view, if Rick
intended to share those photos, he’d have already done so.
Her view, I reasoned, was either naive or blindly optimistic, but I replied
with a reassuring smile rather than my trademark pessimism.
Notwithstanding the fact that Rick Bingley is a proven liar, I cannot cast
what he did from my mind so easily. The thought of him salivating over
those photos for months and years to come makes my skin crawl and blood
boil, never mind the despicable methods he used to obtain them. No, I don’t
want to forget — I want to kill Rick Bingley, slowly, painfully.
As my thoughts turned back to steel-toed boots, Mungo wandered into
the kitchen. After inviting himself to the table, he asked why I was sitting
alone. Maybe it was the alcohol, but I let everything spill out. I shared every
detail of what we’d been through since that fateful day in the park and Rick
Bingley’s part in almost destroying our marriage. Mungo remained silent
throughout my entire monologue but I never got the impression he wasn’t
listening. Once I’d talked myself hoarse, he asked me a question. He asked
if I wanted revenge or justice.
It was such a compelling question I still hadn’t settled on an answer when
Mungo got to his feet. He said his question was worthy of sleeping on and
that we should convene at 6.00 am to discuss my conclusion. I didn’t realise
the early start also included a trip to the countryside, but now I’m here, I’m
glad I agreed.
“I thought about your question,” I remark.
“Did you reach a conclusion?”
“I think so. You asked if I wanted revenge or justice — I want revenge.”
“Explain.”
“I’d bet that Rick Bingley has been up to no good for years, and I reckon
the police would have a field day if they got their hands on his hard drive.
However, I can only think of Chloe, and even if we do contact the police,
it’ll be a lose–lose situation for her.”
“How so?”
“Let’s say they do investigate Rick. There’s a chance they won’t find any
evidence, so he gets away with it. But, if they find evidence, it could be
months before it reaches court, assuming it even gets that far. Then, Chloe
would have to take the stand as a witness and tell the world what happened
to her. As much as I want to see Rick punished, a trial would be as much a
punishment for Chloe, and she just wants some normality back in our lives.
Come to think of it, so do I.”
“Salient points. Seeking formal justice is not without risk or cost.”
“But, I swore to Chloe I wouldn’t do anything stupid, so revenge is off
the cards, too.”
“That depends on your definition of revenge.”
“To be frank, Mungo, I didn’t realise it was possible to hate someone so
badly. That’s why I’d like to beat him to death with an iron bar.”
“That would not be revenge. That would be foolhardy in the extreme.”
“I get it, okay,” I huff. “I know Rick’s background, and he’s got form for
violence. Angry as I am, I’m not willing to risk my life or liberty.”
“Very sensible.”
“I’m glad you agree, but then you were the one who warned Chloe what
might happen if I confronted Rick.”
“Was I?”
“In a way, yes. Chloe had a nightmare where she and Finn attended my
funeral. You were there, too, and, like some fucked-up ghost of Christmas
yet to come, you let my wife witness a scene where Rick and I get into a
fight … a fight where I died due to a stab wound.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it just,” I reply, sardonically. “And I’m sure it’s a coincidence that
after the Aldervale match last Saturday, you told me I’d be dead within a
week unless I changed my thinking.”
“Yes, I did.”
“So, you’re a clairvoyant?”
“No.”
“What are you then?”
Mungo slowly turns to face me, the sunlight accentuating the smoothness
of his bald dome.
“What am I to you?” he asks.
“Eh?”
“It is a simple question, Jake, but let me qualify it. Last night, you asked
a favour of me, did you not? You asked me to take Finn to a cafe.”
“Yes. And?”
“What label would you attach to an individual you are willing to entrust
with your son’s safety and wellbeing?”
“Um …”
 “What label would you attach to an individual whose advice you value?
What label would you attach to an individual with your best interests at
heart?”
“A friend, I guess.”
Ever so slowly, Mungo’s mouth changes shape until a broad smile forms.
“You wanted to know who I am,” he says. “I am your friend.”
As answers go, it falls woefully short of explaining who he is, where he
came from, or why he’s infiltrated our lives, let alone all the other
weirdness. However, to my surprise, it’s an answer I quite like.
“Fair enough,” I smile back. “I’ll take that.”
“Good,” Mungo replies, turning his attention back to the patchwork of
fields below Parson’s Peak. “That is settled.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes longer, but there’s still
one question blotting the landscape.
“How would you do it, Mungo?”
“Do what?”
“Seek revenge on Rick Bingley.”
“That is a good question. As it happens, I do have an idea.”
“Really? What is it?”
“We will pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”
I’m taken aback by Mungo’s suggestion.
“And what exactly are we supposed to do when we get there? Ask him
nicely to delete the photos of Chloe and to kindly refrain from being a
pervert in the future?”
“We could do that.”
“I’m trying my best not to be pessimistic, Mungo, but I can’t see how
that plan would end well. I think a more likely scenario would involve fists
and knives, and I promised Chloe that wouldn’t happen.”
“There will be no need to break your promise. You will have your
revenge, and there will be no risk.”
“You can guarantee that, can you?”
“Yes.”
I’m about to ask Mungo why I should trust him, but I think that ship has
already sailed.
“I’ll go along with your plan, but why wait until tomorrow? We could
visit him later today and get it over with.”
“It is too soon.”
 “Too soon for what?”
“Tonight will be the third night. They always break on the third night.”
“The third night of what?”
Mungo slowly gets to his feet and stands with his hands behind his back,
staring out into the distance.
“You will see,” he sighs. “Then, our story will sadly be over.”
 42
For the first time in two months, we approach the play park hand in
hand. Finn, patently delighted that our Saturday morning routine is back in
force, races ahead to the gate.
“Are Aldervale at home this afternoon?” Chloe asks.
“No, they’re away at Solihull.”
“Does that mean we can spend the afternoon together?”
“Err, some of the afternoon. Mungo wants me to give him a lift
somewhere later.”
It’s the truth, but not the whole truth.
“What time?”
“He wants to leave the house at 11.21 am.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“That’s Mungo.”
We share a chuckle and then sit down on a bench that isn’t as tainted by
toxic memories as last week. We sit close, hands still locked together, and
watch Finn attack a rope swing.
“It’s such a relief,” Chloe comments. “Seeing him back to how he was.”
“It is.”
“And I know it’ll take a bit of time, but I’d love nothing more than for us
to get back to where we were.”
“We will.”
My wife responds with a squeeze of my hand.
“It’ll be Christmas before we know it, and then in the New Year, I was
thinking … I was getting used to the idea of Finn being an only child, but I
haven’t given up the idea of a little brother or sister.”
“Me neither.”
I genuinely haven’t, and I’m all for the return of normality, but I’m
perhaps a bit distracted by what Mungo has in mind for later.
“Oh, yes, Mr Mason,” Chloe then says, changing both the subject and
tone. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”
“Err, what have I done?”
“You were supposed to pass a message on to me.”
“Message? From whom?”
 “Amy, at Loxford’s.”
“Ohh, right. Sorry. In my defence, I’ve had a few other things on my
mind since Thursday.”
“I’ll let you off.”
“How did you know about the message?”
“Amy called me this morning. She wanted to know if I’d had any luck
finding a new job, and she also said I shouldn’t worry about a reference.”
“Really? Why not?”
“She opens all Danny’s mail, so she promised to fill in and return any
reference before he sees it.”
In all the furore of yesterday’s revelations, I’d forgotten about Chloe’s
reference issue.
“That’s kind of her,” I reply. “But, what if dickhead Danny finds out?”
“He won’t. You’d be amazed how little work he actually does, or that pig
who shall remain nameless. He’s been skiving again, unbelievably.”
“Has he?”
“Yeah, he called in sick on Thursday and yesterday. Amy said it’d be
karma if he’s caught a particularly nasty STI.”
“We can only wish.”
I can’t tell Chloe, but I’m hoping Rick’s real karma will arrive later
today, courtesy of Mungo’s plan, whatever that might be. He spent most of
yesterday evening in the spare bedroom, so I’ve hardly seen him since our
chat on Parson’s Peak. I only hope the faith I’ve placed in my new-found
friend will reap reward.
An hour later, with one exhausted but happy little boy in tow, we return
home. Mungo is in the kitchen, staring out across the back garden in the
strange, detached way he sometimes does. He slowly turns around when
Finn asks if he wants to watch TV.
“Alas, young Finn, I have other commitments.”
“What does that mean?”
“We will watch television another time.”
“Okay.”
Satisfied with Mungo’s slightly dismissive reply, Finn races off to his
bedroom.
“Have you got time for a coffee before you go?” Chloe asks.
I glance up at the clock. “That depends on Mungo’s obsession with
leaving at 11.21 am.”
 “It is non-negotiable,” the man himself replies. “You have nine minutes.”
“I’ll grab a coffee later,” I confirm. “Hopefully, we won’t be too long.”
Precisely nine minutes and one glass of orange juice later, I reverse off
the driveway, Mungo in the passenger’s seat.
“We’re going to Rick’s flat, right?” I confirm.
“Yes.”
“You know there’s a good chance he won’t be there? Aldervale are
playing at Solihull today, and I suspect he’s already left. It’s a good two-
hour drive.”
“He will be there.”
“In which case, don’t you think now would be a good time to share your
plan with me?”
“Your role is simple. You must remain calm, as if you are unaware of
Richard Bingley’s nefarious acts and ensure we gain access to his home.”
“That’s it? What happens once we’re in his flat?”
“Wait and see.”
“You know he’s a nasty piece of work? Whatever you’re planning, I hope
you’ve taken into account his violent past.”
“He will not be violent. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“As I said: wait and see.”
There’s precious little point pressing Mungo for more detail, so I turn my
thoughts to a plausible reason for visiting Rick; a reason unlikely to raise
his suspicions but compelling enough he’ll invite me into his home. One
such reason comes to mind just as we reach our destination.
I turn the engine off and turn to Mungo.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I comment. “Are you sure you know
what you’re doing?”
“I know exactly what I am doing, and your bad feeling is merely nervous
anxiety. That emotion will soon diminish.”
There are many words I could use to describe Mungo’s voice, but
reassuring wouldn’t be one of them. However, I can’t deny there’s
reassurance in what he actually says. His knack for identifying my emotions
and then relaying them back to me does seem to dampen the effects. As he
said himself: you can’t fix a problem unless you know what that problem is,
or words to that effect.
“Right,” I puff. “Shall we do this?”
 “Yes.”
We get out of the car and approach the communal entrance to the block
of flats. There’s an intercom system fixed to the wall with eight numbered
buttons in two rows. Each button displays the resident’s surname on a small
piece of card beneath a transparent plastic panel. Written in block capitals
next to the fifth button is the surname Bingley. I press it, and a high-pitched
buzz leaks from a speaker. We wait for a reply.
“What?” a gruff voice eventually replies.
Hard as it is, I paint on a smile hoping it’ll come across in my voice.
“Hello, mate?” I chirp. “It’s Jake.”
“What do you want?” he asks, flatly.
“It’s a bit awkward, really. I was in town, and I bumped into one of those
birds we met at Bar KoKo — the mad bitch had a right go at me. I thought
you’d want to know what bullshit she’s spreading about you.”
Silent, stress-filled seconds pass before Rick finally responds. “Come
up.”
The buzzer sounds again, along with the clunk of the lock mechanism. I
pull the door open, and we make our way up the stairs to the first floor, to a
landing with grimy walls and threadbare carpet tiles. The door to flat five
opens, and for a split-second, I don’t recognise the man in the doorway.
“Christ,” I splutter. “Are you alright, mate? You look dreadful.”
Wearing a dressing gown every bit as grimy as the landing walls, Rick
really does look dreadful. His skin is pale, his eyes puffy, and chin shaded
with grey stubble.
“Don’t ask,” he mumbles while rubbing a hand against his forehead.
“Err, can we come in for five minutes? I don’t think you’ll want your
neighbours listening in.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
He stares at Mungo for a few seconds but doesn’t question why he’s with
me. He then turns and shuffles back along the hallway. I cautiously follow.
Once we’re in the hallway Mungo closes the front door.
The first impression of Rick Bingley’s flat isn’t a positive one, not least
because it stinks of damp laundry and stale body odour. Rick waves us
through one of the four open doors to a lounge that even a uni student
would be ashamed to invite guests back to. The thin curtains are closed, but
there’s enough tepid light to see the room in all its squalid glory.
 “Excuse the mess,” Rick grunts as he collapses into a tatty armchair
surrounded by discarded beer cans and empty pizza boxes. “Sit your arse
down if you want.”
He nods towards an equally tatty sofa wedged up against the far wall at a
right angle to the armchair. I gingerly step across the sticky, stained carpet
and perch on the edge of the sofa. Mungo doesn’t join me. Instead, he takes
up a position near the window, directly opposite Rick.
“What’s that lying cow been saying about me, then?” Rick asks, stifling a
yawn.
I don’t know what to say, so I change the subject. “Err, I’ll get to that. I
take it you’re not heading up to Solihull for the game this afternoon?”
“I can’t.”
“Oh. Why not?”
“I ain’t slept a wink in three days. I barely made it to the front door.”
He yawns again as I scramble for something to say. It’s no longer nerves
controlling my thinking, though — it’s anger. In his current state, I doubt
Rick would be able to put up much of a fight, and I wonder if this is what
Mungo had in mind. How he knew about Rick’s insomnia is a question I
can’t answer, but that’s not my priority right now. I scan the room for
anything Rick could use as a weapon should I launch an attack.
“Are you feeling sleepy, Richard Bingley?” Mungo suddenly asks, taking
three slow steps towards the armchair.
“Huh?” Rick replies with a look of mild confusion.
“I said, are you feeling sleepy?”
There’s a marked difference in the tempo of Mungo’s question the second
time he asked it. Not only was it noticeably slower, but quieter, almost
gentle.
“Yeah,” Rick mumbles. “So sleepy.”
“Then, you must close your eyes and go to sleep.”
“I can’t … I can’t …”
“Yes, you can. Close your eyes, and sleep will come.”
Despite sitting within a few feet of both men, I can’t quite comprehend
what’s happening. Mungo appears to have adopted the persona of a stage
hypnotist, and Rick seems completely unperturbed by either the small
man’s presence or his instructions.
“Sleep now,” Mungo says as Rick loses the battle with his heavy eyelids.
 For the first time since we entered the flat, I can hear the faint hum of a
fridge compressor because it’s so quiet. Then, Rick’s head lolls to the left,
and his breathing slows to a nasal rasp.
“He is asleep,” Mungo says, turning to me.
“Great,” I snort. “I was hoping for something a bit more … vengeful than
sending Rick to the Land of Nod. You’ve probably done him a favour,
judging by the state of him.”
My companion then points to a spot on the floor next to Rick’s armchair.
“What?” I query.
“Look.”
I get up from the sofa and can immediately see what’s drawn Mungo’s
attention. A laptop is partially hidden by a pizza box, with a mobile phone
resting on top of an unopened four-pack of beers.
“Do you know what the most rewarding kind of revenge is?” Mungo
asks, adopting a peculiar kind of smile.
“Err, no.”
“The poetic kind.”
“Isn’t that justice, rather than revenge.”
“Now is not the time for pedantry, Jake. You now have unfettered access
to Richard Bingley’s electronic devices.”
“Okay, and what …”
The answer hits me like a jolt of electricity — the photos of Chloe.
I dash to the armchair, snatch both devices from the floor, and hurry back
to the sofa.
“What if he wakes up?” I ask.
“He will not wake up. Of that you can be assured.”
Not wishing to waste another second, I focus on the phone first, knowing
it was likely the device Rick used to capture illicit images of my wife.
Fortunately, it’s unlocked, and I’m able to tap straight through to the image
gallery. What I find is surprising, but not in a good way.
“Shit,” I hiss. “The image gallery is empty.”
“That is not good?”
“No, it’s not.”
I toss the phone to one side and snatch up the laptop, praying it’s also
unlocked. The second I lift the lid, the screen flares into life, showing a
Google search page with the most recently searched results: how to cure
acute insomnia.
 I close the browser and scan the desktop icons, looking for a potential
home for Rick’s photo collection. Most of the icons are for familiar
programs such as Word and Excel, but there’s one icon at the bottom of the
screen labelled ‘DexaCloud’ that I’ve never heard of. However, I do recall
that Rachel mentioned finding the videos of her sister stored in a cloud-
based folder.
I click on the icon — the program launches.
 43
The laptop is old and slow. Consequently, it seems to take an eternity
for DexaCloud to load. While an egg-timer icon hovers in the centre of the
screen, I glance across the room. Mungo is staring through a gap in the
curtains while Rick is still out for the count.
Finally, the program opens.
I’ve used several cloud storage services in the past and most of them
utilise a similar interface. There’s a list of folders on the main page, and
once you double-click on one, a new screen opens, displaying all the files in
the folder. DexaCloud is no different.
I scan the list of folders, looking for anything that might seem out of the
ordinary. The first items on the list are innocuous enough: accounts,
backups, documents, downloads, and projects. The next item on the list
leaps off the screen, though — camera uploads. I click the folder, and
another list of sub-folders appears, although not in alphabetical order:
Holidays, Aldervale, Alfie, Silverstone, and dozens more with labels that
sound innocent enough. There’s no obvious home for Chloe’s photos,
though, so my only option is to click on every one of the folders to double-
check the contents.
“You okay over there?” I call across to Mungo.
Without moving his eyes from the window, he confirms with a simple
yes.
I turn back to the screen and the daunting task of trying to find a dozen
photos amongst possibly thousands. I’m about to click the first of the
folders when a thought occurs — why search at all? I click back to the
previous screen and then highlight every single folder in the account. Then,
I tap the delete button. A message pops up, asking if I really want to delete
eighty-three folders and over three thousand files.
It’s not exactly the revenge I had in mind, but it’ll have to do.
“Fuck you, Rick,” I whisper to myself.
I click the button confirming I want to delete every single file and every
single folder. The egg timer pops up again.
I’m pretty sure it’ll take a while to delete so many files, but it’s the only
way I can guarantee the photos of Chloe, and any other of Rick Bingley’s
unsuspecting victims, will never see the light of day again. I’m also aware,
however, that I’ve just deleted potential evidence.
“I’ve deleted everything in his cloud service,” I confirm to Mungo. “Do
you think I did the right thing?”
“Have you completed the task?”
“Yeah, almost. I’m just waiting for the server to purge the files.”
“Do you believe it is adequate revenge for Richard Bingley’s misdeeds?”
As always, Mungo’s question is worth considering. If I lost every file on
my laptop, how would I feel? Gutted? Annoyed? Pissed off for a while?
Whichever emotion Rick endures when he discovers what I’ve done, it’ll
pale into insignificance compared to what he’s put Chloe, Rachel, Amber,
and possibly many other women through. Nor will it be any deterrent to
him continuing his sordid hobby.
“No, I don’t.”
“Then, you must think.”
I turn back to the screen and minimise the DexaCloud program while it
continues the deletion process. Looking for inspiration I check what other
programs Rick has installed on the laptop. One then catches my eye: the
messaging program WhatsApp.
I open it up and scroll through the first few messages. One is from
someone called Vinny and relates to today’s Aldervale game, and the next
one is from an unknown contact, but it appears to be a work-related matter.
The third message is from a group chat titled ‘Lox Lads’ with Rick, Danny
Oswald, and two other men listed as members. I open the chat group and
scroll through the first dozen messages between the group members. Based
on those messages, it’s evident that the four men all work together at
Loxford’s. It’s also evident that they’re an unsavoury group.
“Jesus wept,” I gasp.
“Probably,” Mungo remarks.
“Eh?”
“You said Jesus wept. I was merely confirming that he probably did, in
all likelihood. Being crucified would upset most humans.”
“No, eh? I’ve found a load of messages between Rick Bingley and some
of the other male employees at Loxford’s, and they’re vile.”
“In what way are they vile?”
“Where to start? I mean, there are dozens of racist, homophobic, and
misogynist messages in the form of so-called jokes and memes, but it’s the
stuff relating to the female employees that’s really near the knuckle.
They’ve coined something called the shagability-scale where they allocate a
rating out of ten for every woman in the office, and they discuss all sorts of
seedy details about what they’d like to do to them. It’s sick.”
For the first time since I opened the laptop, Mungo turns away from the
window. With his hands behind his back, he takes a couple of steps towards
me while glancing at the still-snoozing Rick.
“They are private messages?” he then asks.
“Yes.”
“The content would be considered inappropriate?”
“Highly offensive, I’d say.”
“It would be a shame if those messages were to find their way into the
public domain, would you not agree?”
“Yes, that would be a shame,” I grin back.
Swiftly switching my attention back to the keyboard, I start snapping
screenshots of the more offensive messages in the Lox Lads chat group,
ensuring I capture the individual names of those sending the messages.
Once I’ve collated a damning enough selection, I open up Facebook.
Fortunately, Rick is still logged-in from his last session. Unfortunately for
Rick, he’s no longer in control of the account.
I spend the next five minutes posting the screenshots on Rick’s Facebook
page, ensuring the privacy filter is set to public. Then I do the same on
Loxford’s Facebook page, together with a message from Rick, saying it’s
about time their thick-as-shit customers knew what kind of people they
were dealing with. Being a Saturday, it’s unlikely anyone from Loxford’s
will see the message until Monday. Plenty of time for the world to see what
kind of men they employ.
With Rick’s career destroyed, not to mention Danny’s and the other two
miscreants, I open up the Aldervale fans’ forum and start a new thread
under the subject: Rick Bingley — My Confession. I then upload the
screenshots and click the submit button. With the club rightly adopting a
zero tolerance policy when it comes to racist language, they’ll have no
choice but to enforce a lifetime ban on Rick and his mates once they see the
language he’s used to describe some of our black players.
It takes another ten minutes to complete my revenge. I post a variety of
screenshots on each one of Rick’s accounts, including Twitter, Instagram,
and LinkedIn. I might have stopped there, but when an email notification
pops up, it proves too much of a temptation. I open Outlook and send a
message with the accompanying screenshots to every one of Rick’s
contacts, including a huge list of all the customers he’s dealt with at
Loxford’s.
With one final key tap, I sit back and puff a satisfied sigh.
“Well, that’s Rick’s life royally fucked.”
“Your revenge is complete?” Mungo asks, back at his position by the
window.
“I think …”
My attention is momentarily snared when I spot a digital camera on a
shelf above the TV.
“One minute, Mungo.”
I get up and grab the camera. After transferring the memory card to my
pocket, I hurry through to the kitchen, place the camera in the washing
machine, and set it to run. As much as I’d love to stand and watch Rick’s
expensive camera tumble through a ninety-minute cycle, I’d rather spend
the time at home with my wife and son. I return to the lounge.
“I’m all done,” I announce. “Revenge complete.”
“That is good,” Mungo replies. “Now, I can enact my revenge.”
“Yours? What’s Rick done to you?”
“It is not what he has done to me, Jake. It is what he has done to my
friends.”
“Err, thanks, I think. What exactly did you have in mind?”
He steps away from the window and approaches the armchair. For
reasons I don’t understand, he takes up position behind the chair and places
his hands on Rick’s shoulders. Rick doesn’t stir.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Richard Bingley must feel the weight of the negative emotions you and
your family have endured because of his actions. It is only right.”
“Eh? Are you going to wake him up?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m off. He’ll go ballistic when he finds out what I’ve done.”
“No harm will come of you because he will remain in the chair until I
decide otherwise.”
Suddenly, Rick’s head snaps up, his eyes like saucers.
“What the …”
 Confusion appears to reign for a moment as he tries to work out why I’m
standing in his lounge and why there’s a hand resting on each of his
shoulders.
“You’re still here,” he croaks. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Not long enough,” Mungo replies over his head.
What happens next is as confusing for me as it is for Rick. In his shoes,
I’d automatically try to stand up or turn around to see who answered my
question. Judging by his strained facial features and grunts, he appears
unable to do either.
“Jake has some questions for you,” Mungo says more matter-of-factly
than usual. “You will answer them honestly.”
This is news to me, but having my wife’s tormentor only feet away,
seemingly unable to move, can I really walk away from this opportunity,
mad as it is?
I look towards Mungo. He nods and returns a thin smile. “You may ask
your questions,” he says.
Rick tries to shift in the chair again, but it’s almost as if he’s suffering
temporary paralysis. He can obviously move his head, but for reasons
beyond my comprehension, he seems to have lost complete control of his
body.
I take a few tentative steps towards him.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he asks.
“Honestly, Rick, I’ve no idea.”
“Has your freaky mate done something to me? I can’t fucking move.”
With that one line, it becomes clear why Mungo’s brand of revenge,
however the hell he’s doing it, is so deliciously perfect.
“That’s a concern,” I say, flatly. “It can’t be nice, someone else rendering
you helpless, eh?”
“I don’t know what your game is, Jake,” he snarls. “But help me get out
of this bastard chair.”
“That’s not very polite. I thought we were mates.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he replies with mock contrition. “Course we are.”
“But we’re not mates, though, are we?” I respond, dropping the mask of
civility. “Mates don’t drug each other’s wives and then take nude photos of
them, do they?”
The last remnants of colour drain from Rick’s face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snorts.
 “Cut the bullshit. Chloe told me everything, and I mean everything.”
His nostrils flare as he mutters something under his breath.
“I didn’t catch that. What did you say?”
“I said she shouldn’t have done that. We had a deal.”
“A deal?” I scoff. “Was it the same kind of deal you struck with Rachel’s
sister, or Amber?”
“What?”
“You’re a sick, twisted piece of shit, Rick, but it ends here.”
“Does it now?” he sneers. “You’ve made a grave mistake coming here
and threatening me.”
“Why’s that? Do you think you can continue using those photos as
leverage?”
“You said it. Get the fuck out of my flat and maybe I’ll delete them.”
I turn around and grab the laptop.
“Nice offer,” I say, holding the laptop aloft. “But I’ve already deleted
them.”
Rick scrunches his face and slowly shakes his head. “Alright, so you’ve
got what you wanted. There’s no reason for you to hang around.”
“Or you.”
“Eh?”
“There’s no reason for you to hang around. I’d suggest you move
somewhere a long way from Aldervale. Say … the Outer Hebrides?”
“I ain’t going anywhere. I’ve got a good job here, and—”
“Had a good job,” I interject. “While you were having a nap, I shared
some of your disgusting WhatsApp messages with the world, and I might
have also inadvertently sent them to everyone in your email contact list. It’s
not all bad news, though. At least you’ll be able to share the cost of a cab to
the job centre with your old mate, Danny Oswald.”
As the magnitude of my revelation hits home, Rick resorts to type.
“You’re a fucking dead man,” he growls. “I’m gonna come after you and
that bitch wife of yours.”
I might have failed to protect Chloe the first time around, but there won’t
be a second. I step forward and wave the laptop right under Rick’s nose.
“You will leave Aldervale because I’m taking this with me, and if you’re
still living in this shit hole next weekend, I’ll drop your laptop off at the
police station. I’m sure CID will find plenty of highly incriminating
evidence on your hard drive.”
 “Like fuck they will.”
“They will, Rick, because I’ll put it there myself.”
He doesn’t know that I’ve already deleted everything in his cloud
account, no more than he knows I’m bluffing.
“You know what I used to do for a living, right?” I continue. “I worked in
IT, and even though I’ve already deleted every single file in your
DexaCloud account, I could easily upload some nasty content onto your
laptop — the kind of content that can get a man locked up for a very long
time.”
“Don’t you dare threaten me,” he retorts, although his threat doesn’t
reach his eyes.
“It’s over, Rick. You’ve got one chance to disappear. One chance, one
week, and then the laptop goes to the police.”
He seems to assess his options. I need to ensure they’re all closed.
“As I stand here now, scores of people will have already seen those
messages you posted on WhatsApp. By Monday, that number could be tens
of thousands. You’ll be a pariah in Aldervale — no one will want to be seen
with you, let alone employ you.”
I take another step forward.
“And, if you’re thinking what I suspect you’re thinking — that you can
simply log-in and delete everything I’ve posted — forget it. I’m taking your
laptop and phone with me, and I’ve already changed all your passwords.”
It’s another bluff, but there’s no reason I can’t change the passwords as
soon as I get home.
Rick looks up and scowls, but there’s nothing he can say. Thankfully, it
still seems like there’s nothing he can do, for the time being, anyway. He
closes his eyes, as anyone in such a hopeless predicament might do.
“You are done?” Mungo asks.
I glance down at Rick. His eyes are still firmly shut.
“I think so.”
“Then, we will leave.”
Without warning, Mungo suddenly steps back from the armchair. For one
fleeting moment, I fear Rick might leap up, snatch the laptop from my
hands, and beat me to death with it. My fear is unfounded, though, as he
doesn’t move a muscle.
“He is fast asleep,” Mungo confirms, putting my anxiety to rest. “And he
will remain fast asleep for some time.”
 “How long is some time?”
“Forty-eight hours, I estimate. He has not slept for three days.”
“I don’t know how you can be so sure, but if you’re right, I don’t have to
worry about his retribution until Monday.”
“There will be no retribution. Richard Bingley will comply with your
demands.”
“You reckon?”
“No, Jake,” he replies, his almost translucent eyebrows slightly arched. “I
do not reckon — I know.”
 44
I make sure both devices are powered off and hide them in the boot of
the car. Despite Mungo’s assurances, I’m keen to get away.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” I remark as I start the engine. “It was
like something out of a gangster film.”
“You acted as you should have acted. I am pleased.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased, but I’m shitting myself.”
He slowly turns his head in my direction.
“And, no,” I clarify. “I’m not actually shitting myself.”
“That is welcome news.”
I lift the clutch and pull away, glancing repeatedly in my rear-view mirror
in case a stocky pervert in a dressing gown is giving chase. The coast
remains clear until the block of flats disappears from view.
“We should go for a walk,” Mungo then says. “An opportunity for you to
calm your nerves.”
I glance at my knuckles; near white from gripping the steering wheel too
hard. It probably isn’t sensible returning home while I’m so wired as Chloe
will know I’ve been up to something.
“Err, right. Where?”
“The bridge where we first met. I would like to return there.”
“Okay.”
We travel in silence for the short journey to Farm Lane.
Knowing how narrow the lane itself is, I park up in a layby some hundred
yards away.
“You are still concerned that Richard Bingley might seek retribution?”
Mungo remarks as I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Do not be concerned. He will
have other priorities for the foreseeable future.”
“If I’ve learned anything over these recent weeks, it’s that I can trust you.
If you say he won’t bother us again, that’s good enough for me.”
“Sound reasoning.”
We get out of the car and walk slowly along the pavement towards Farm
Lane. Almost on cue, the clouds break, brightening the scene and allowing
the sun’s tepid rays to reach my face.
“Are you going to explain what happened back in Rick’s flat?” I ask.
 “Specifically?”
“What did you do to him? Was it hypnosis?”
“Would it make any difference to your life if I answered your question?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
We reach the entrance to Farm Lane and turn left, the narrow band of
unmade road stretching into the distance.
“You will work it out in time,” Mungo eventually replies with a faint
smile. “For now, you know what you need to know.”
I’m not inclined to push for a proper answer. After all we’ve been
through in the last few weeks, I’d rather focus on the positives than dwell
on Mungo’s weirdness. He’s imparted some sound advice, and even though
I’m only just realising how sound that advice is, I wouldn’t want to
undermine it. I do know what I need to know, for now. There will be ample
opportunity to interrogate Mungo once the dust has settled and I’ve had
time to properly process events.
“As for what you do now,” he continues. “Your therapy is complete.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. You demonstrated how far you have evolved as you confronted
Richard Bingley.”
“Err, did I?”
“You will not make good on your threat, will you?”
“To dump some shady files on his laptop and hand it to the police?”
“Yes.”
“God, no. I’m not that stupid.”
“That is referred to as a bluff, I believe: to deceive someone as to one’s
abilities or intentions.”
“I know what a bluff is. What’s your point?”
“You do realise that a pessimist cannot bluff? They only see a negative
outcome and, whether they are aware of it or not, their doubts always betray
the bluff.”
“Hmm, that’s as maybe, but … but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t still a
tiny bit worried.”
“About?”
“The future, I suppose.”
“You are only human, Jake, and humans worry — it is perfectly normal.
It is, however, your choice how you manage that worry. You can fuel it with
pessimism or subdue it with optimism.”
 “That simple, is it?”
“Not simple, but logical. You argued that pessimists are rarely
disappointed, but would you now agree that an occasional disappointment is
a small price to pay for a happier life?”
Immediately, my thoughts turn to the happiest man I know: Ash. Perhaps
it’s no coincidence that he also happens to be the most optimistic man I
know. He’s also mildly annoying, but no one’s perfect, I suppose.
“Okay, you got me,” I concede. “Perhaps pessimism is overrated.”
“It is not just overrated — it is destructive. I hope you have learned that
lesson in recent weeks.”
“Yes, I have.”
“Good. In which case, all that remains is for you to live a happy life.”
“I’m going to try, Mungo. I promise you that.”
He replies with a faint nod and a smile that isn’t quite a smile.
“So, what are your plans?” I ask.
“My plans are an irrelevance, but I will not be able to stay in your life.”
“Eh? Why not?”
“It is not possible.”
“But … but, what about Finn? He’s grown quite attached to you, if you
hadn’t noticed.”
“And I am attached to him, but you should not worry. Finn will be fine.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he will be, but—”
“You will all be fine, Jake. All four of you.”
“Err, three, you mean.”
He doesn’t reply, perhaps distracted by the sudden and urgent cawing of a
crow in a bare-limbed sycamore tree. In fact, Mungo doesn’t say another
word until the lane begins climbing toward Horseshoe Bridge.
“There is one final matter we must address,” he then says.
“What’s that?”
“Your mother. You did not contact her.”
From his tone, it’s impossible to say if he’s asking a question or stating a
fact.
“I don’t see any point, and besides, I could do without the drama.”
“No point?”
“She left, Mungo, without a care for what might happen to me — what
kind of parent does that? I can’t imagine any scenario where I’d abandon
Finn like my so-called mum abandoned me.”
 “Considering we are about to reach a bridge where you may have
considered one particular scenario, I would reassess that statement.”
“I said I wasn’t seriously thinking about jumping that night.”
“So you say.”
“Anyway,” I cough, clearing my throat. “If my mum wanted to get in
touch, she’s had years to pick up the phone.”
“Think about that statement and consider what you have learned about
the truth.”
“That it comes in many forms?”
“Precisely. Your pessimistic-self accepted one version of the truth, and
you have lived with that truth for many years. What if there is another
truth?”
What indeed.
For weeks, I’ve lived with the thought that my wife cheated on me. In
fairness, so has she. If I relived that moment in the park again, I doubt I’d
react differently, but maybe now I’d stop to ask the question I never got
around to asking: why? Who knows if that one simple question might have
led us to the truth sooner, but only a fool would make the same mistake
twice. Maybe I do need to ask my mum the question I never asked Chloe:
why?
“I’ll think about it, Mungo. And, I mean, properly think about it.”
He replies with a nod.
We finally reach Horseshoe Bridge, and with it, memories of my
granddad. Instinctively, I slow down and step over to the wall to view the
cutting below. Way off in the distance, a train comes into sight. It triggers
the same thrill now as it did all those years ago when Granddad urged me to
wave at the driver whenever a train approached. I don’t recall a single
occasion when I didn’t receive a wave back.
As the train gets nearer, the comforting sound of the wheels clacking
rhythmically along the rails grows louder and louder. Without thinking
about it, I raise my right arm and risk a wave at the driver. In response, he
waves back, albeit hesitantly. I doubt he receives many waves from men in
their thirties, so maybe I need to bring Finn next time.
Almost as quickly as it appeared, the engine disappears beneath the
bridge, and the eight carriages follow within a few seconds. Granddad used
to spin me around so we could dash across to the other wall and watch the
train trundle off towards the next station. For old-time’s sake, I spin around,
intent on reliving that experience.
Only then do I realise Mungo is no longer at my side. I scan the lane to
the left, but there’s no sign of him, nor to the right. He’d have needed to
sprint away to be out of sight, and I can’t see Mungo being much of a
sprinter with his stumpy little legs.
That being the case, where is he?
My eyes settle on the wall opposite, and panic arrives.
“Oh, shit!”
I dart across to the opposite wall and lean over, frantically scouring the
track bed for a sight I hope I don’t get to see. Why Mungo would jump
from the bridge is beyond me, but it’s the only place I haven’t looked.
Leaning over as far as I dare, I turn my head a full one-eighty degrees
but, besides a smattering of rubbish, the tracks are clear. My heart rate
settles down and, confident Mungo didn’t suddenly decide to end it all, I
spin around and double-check my immediate surroundings.
“Mungo!” I yell. “Mungo!”
Besides the distant rumble of the train and birdsong, the scene is silent.
Where the hell is he?
In lieu of an answer, I jog a few hundred yards past Horseshoe Bridge
until I can see the final stretch of Farm Lane before it reaches a dead end. I
turn around and jog back the other way, crossing the bridge and onwards,
through the thicket of trees to where the lane straightens out. Running out
of breath, I come to a stop and squint into the distance. There’s not a soul
around.
Unsure what else to do, I continue on until I reach the main road. There’s
no sign of Mungo in either direction, but maybe he’s waiting for me back at
the car.
I cover the last hundred yards in hope more than expectation. Mungo is
not waiting by the car. I get in and let five minutes pass, then ten. After
twenty minutes, I have to concede that sometimes optimism also requires a
level of realism — I don’t think Mungo is returning to the car.
With a degree of reluctance, I set off for Norton Rise.
For the entire journey home, my thoughts are clouded by doubt. Did I
search long enough? Did I wait long enough? Should I contact the police
and report Mungo’s disappearance? I’m pretty sure I searched and waited
long enough, and it’s unlikely the police will do anything until Mungo has
been missing for at least twenty-four hours. For now, there’s nothing I can
do but wait.
When I unlock the front door, my thoughts temporarily switch to the
woman waiting inside. I left the house less than two hours ago but much has
happened in those two hours. Should I tell her about my visit to Rick’s flat?
By the time I’ve removed my coat and shoes, I’ve reached a decision.
I’m pretty sure that Chloe’s former colleagues, including Amy, will
already be spreading the word about Rick’s posts on social media. Most will
be shocked, some will be stunned, but I reckon they’ll all be delighted that
Rick Bingley has signed his own death warrant, as far as his career is
concerned. It’s a simpler version of the truth and one I think Chloe would
prefer over mine.
I wander through to the kitchen.
“You’ve been gone a while,” Chloe remarks from the table. “Everything
okay?”
“Err, I’m not sure. I went for a walk with Mungo but he’s … well, I don’t
know where he is.”
“You’ve lost him?”
“He’s not a dog, babe,” I chuckle. “But he has disappeared.”
“Where did you last see him?”
“We went for a walk to Horseshoe Bridge. One minute he was there; the
next, he was gone. I jogged up and down the lane looking for him — even
checked the railway track — but to no avail.”
“Gosh, I do hope he’s okay.”
I take a seat next to Chloe and place my hand on hers.
“Listen, I honestly wouldn’t worry. Something tells me Mungo is okay
— call it a gut instinct.”
My wife finds a smile and then leans across, planting a kiss on my cheek.
“I like your positivity,” she says with a wink. “It suits you.”
“Thank you. I’ll wear it more often.”
My reward is another kiss but of the more enticing variety. With concerns
about trouser activity mounting, and our son in the house, I reluctantly
come up for air.
“Any, um, plans for the afternoon?” I splutter, trying to regain my
composure.
“I know how I’d like to spend it, but those thoughts will have to keep
until this evening.”
 “I look forward to hearing them,” I reply with a knowing smile. “In the
meantime, I’ll nip upstairs and see what our son fancies doing this
afternoon.”
“Don’t say anything about Mungo just yet. I wouldn’t want to risk
upsetting him.”
“Well, if Mungo doesn’t come back, we’ll have to tell him at some
point.”
“I know, but I want to be a normal, boring family for a while. No stress,
no drama, no conflict.”
“I’m with you on that.”
With a parting smile, I wander back through the kitchen door to the
hallway. Halfway up the stairs, I come to a sudden halt, prompted by a
sound I hoped never to hear again — Finn chatting away to himself.
“God, no,” I groan. “Please, not again.”
For a moment, I consider retreating back down the stairs and sharing my
fears with Chloe, but I don’t want to worry her prematurely. Maybe Finn is
reading a book out loud or just airing his thoughts. Either would be
preferable over the return of his imaginary friend and the mutism.
I continue moving slowly up the stairs, straining to hear what Finn is
saying. I can’t make out any specific words, but his tone of voice is
conversational. I don’t know whether that’s a good sign or not.
Reaching my son’s bedroom door, I consider waiting a minute and
listening in, but I’d rather not indulge his fantasy any longer than necessary.
I rap my knuckle on the door and announce my presence.
“Hey, mate,” I say, slowly opening the door. “Only me.”
Finn is sitting at the little desk Chloe’s parents bought for his birthday, a
felt-tip pen in his left hand and a sketch pad in front of him.
“Hello, Daddy,” he says brightly.
“What are you up to?” I ask, casually stepping closer to his desk.
“I’m drawing a picture. Do you like it?”
I lean over to take a closer look. It’s very much in the style of a four-year-
old child; artwork destined for the fridge door. It features three stick-like
characters with smiley faces beneath a slightly out-of-proportion sun.
“It’s really good,” I say. “Is that us?”
“That’s you,” he replies, pointing to the tallest stick.
“You’ve given me a very big smile,” I chuckle. “Thank you.”
“That’s because you’re happy now.”
 I lean over and deliver a kiss to the top of his head. “Yes, mate. I am.”
“And that’s Mummy,” he says, pointing to a stick with wild orange hair.
“Yes, I can see that. That’s you, is it?”
“Yep. I’m looking for our dinosaur puppy. He’s run away again.”
“Again?” I tut. “We’ll have to take him to dinosaur puppy training.”
Finn giggles at my suggestion and then returns his attention to the sketch
pad, probably to draw the missing dinosaur.
“Would you like to go into town later?” I ask. “Maybe we can visit the
pet shop. They might have some kittens in stock now.”
“Yes, please,” he replies without looking up from the pad.
“Cool. I’ll give you a shout when we’re ready to leave.”
I get as far as the door when Finn calls out. “Daddy.”
“Yes, mate.”
“Should I add Mungo to the picture?”
“Um, if you like.”
“I was going to, but I didn’t want to make you sad.”
“Why would adding Mungo make me sad?”
“Because he didn’t say goodbye. He was going to, but he had to leave.”
I stare back at my son, trying not to let the confusion reach my face.
“Err, how do you know he had to leave?”
“He told me.”
“When did he tell you?”
“Before you came into my room. We were talking.”
Mouth agape, I slowly turn and scan the bedroom for a man who —
despite his diminutive frame — is too big to hide in a relatively small space.
I’m about to check the wardrobe when Finn giggles to himself.
“He’s not here, Daddy,” my son says with a huge grin. “He’s back in my
head, like before.”
THREE MONTHS LATER…
 45
An email lands in my inbox just as I’m about to close down the
program. From Robbie Ferguson, it’s short and to the point: Can you pop to
my office before you leave? I need a two-minute chat. Thanks.
There are many reasons my boss might want to see me before I leave —
some good, and some perhaps not so good. Either way, there’s no point
fretting because it won’t change the outcome of Robbie’s requested chat,
nor does it really matter in the big scheme of life.
“Que Sera Sera, Jake,” I smile while replying to Robbie’s email.
Just because I’m not concerned, that’s not to say I’m not curious. My
three-month probation period ends next week, so there’s a chance it might
relate to that, but it would be odd to describe a conversation on my future at
GideaSoft as a two-minute chat.
Turning my attention to another program, I complete my final task of the
day and then log out of the system. Being a Friday, I’m looking forward to a
relaxing meal with my wife and son. However, I’ve got a long overdue
issue to resolve before I return to Norton Rise.
I lock the door to my office and stroll down the corridor to Robbie’s
office. His door is always open, as was his promise on the first day I started
working here. I rap my knuckle against the frame and enter.
“You wanted to see me?”
Robbie looks up from his monitor and smiles.
“Come in, Jake. Grab a pew.”
Robbie doesn’t believe in conversations over a desk, so I sit on the large
sofa positioned against the wall of his impressive office.
“Fancy a cold one?” Robbie asks as he moves from his desk towards a
chiller beneath the window.
“I’d love one.”
My boss opens two bottles of lager and joins me on the sofa.
“I think we’ve earned this,” he remarks, passing me one of the bottles.
“It’s been quite a week.”
“It’s had its challenges,” I reply. “But, we’re making great progress.”
“You are, and that’s why I wanted to have a chat with you.”
“Oh?”
 Robbie takes a quick sip of lager and then adjusts his position on the
sofa, so he’s facing me.
“Cards on the table, Jake. I have a concern.”
“About?”
“You.”
“In what way?”
“I’m concerned that a bigger company will come calling with a
ridiculous offer that we can’t match, and you won’t be able to say no.”
“Err, I wouldn’t be too concerned if I were you. I love working here,
Robbie.”
“That’s great to hear, but I didn’t build this business by taking
unnecessary risks. As it is, you’re still on a probationary contract, which
presents an unnecessary risk on our part.”
“But my probationary period ends next week. I presumed we’d sit down
and discuss my future at that point.”
“That was my plan, but I wanted to give you some assurances before we
get to that meeting. What you’ve achieved in the few months you’ve
worked here has been nothing short of stellar, and I intend to reward that
work with a much-improved contract.”
“Oh, I don’t know what to say other than thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he says with a grin. “I’m doing this for purely selfish
reasons. You’ve had such a positive impact since day one, and I want to
ensure we all benefit from that positivity for many years to come … if you
can see that far ahead?”
“I’m not one for thinking too far ahead these days, but I’m genuinely
flattered that you have so much faith in me.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to sign a new contract next week?”
“One hundred per cent.”
“Excellent news,” he says. “Here’s to the future, Jake.”
We clink our bottles together and take a celebratory gulp of cold lager.
“Talking of the future,” Robbie then continues. “How’s your new recruit
getting on?”
“It’s early days, but he’s hit the ground running. I think he’s another one
you might want to tie to a new contract sooner rather than later.”
“You did well convincing me to bring Ash on board. I’ve toyed with the
idea of hiring trainees before, but I never got as far as talking to the local
college. It’s a fantastic initiative and hopefully it’ll solve our recruitment
issues once and for all.”
I discovered within the first few days of starting my new job that
recruitment was the bane of Robbie’s life, and when I suggested we set up a
trainee program to future-proof the problem, he leapt at the idea. A week
later, I invited Ash out for a beer and asked if he might like to be our guinea
pig. He was so enthusiastic that I thought he might try and hug me at one
point. We’re good friends now, but I draw the line at man hugs unless it’s
after Aldervale score.
“Anyway,” Robbie says, noting the time. “I don’t want to hold you up
any longer on a Friday.”
“It’s not a problem. Thankfully, my wife is an understanding woman.”
“Lucky you,” he chuckles. “Mine isn’t.”
We stand, and Robbie takes my empty bottle.
“Any exciting plans for the weekend?” he asks.
“I’m taking my son to watch his first Aldervale game tomorrow. We’ve
reached the fifth round of the FA Trophy, and if the bookies are right, we’re
odds-on to reach the final at Wembley.”
“So I hear. My brother-in-law is a fan, and he’s been banging on about
The Vale for weeks. It’s quite a turnaround in form, considering they were
about to sack their manager in November.”
“Some might say a miraculous turnaround in form.”
“It goes to show that patience usually brings rewards.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
I bid Robbie goodbye and head out to the car park.
With the sun still hovering above the horizon, I don a pair of sunglasses
and set off. As I drive, I consider which will be shorter: the journey or the
conversation when I reach my destination. My money is on the latter. I
squeeze in half a dozen tracks from a playlist of upbeat tunes before I pull
up outside a semi-detached house. Not wanting to waste more time than
necessary, I get out of the car and hurry up the front path.
Dad answers the door in a pair of jogging pants and a vest top.
“Alright, Boy,” he says. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I was just passing and thought I’d drop by.”
“Any chance you could come back in an hour?”
“You want me to drive home, sit around for five minutes, and then drive
all the way back here?”
 “Suppose not. Come in, then.”
Rather than invite me into the lounge, where I might make myself too
comfortable, Dad leads me to the kitchen and offers a seat on a bar stool.
“Where’s Melanie?” I ask.
“Upstairs, just finishing off a session on the sunbed. I was gonna grab
twenty minutes before dinner, but it’ll wait.”
“You know sunbeds are really bad for you?”
“Nah, they ain’t,” he replies dismissively. “You shouldn’t believe
everything you read in the papers.”
“Even if they’re reporting scientifically proven medical facts?”
“It’s my body, and if I wanna grill it every day, that’s my lookout.”
“Fair enough.”
He opens the fridge and grabs a can of lager. “You want one?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“So, what’s been happening, then?” Dad asks. “I ain’t heard from you in
a few weeks.”
“Since I called to tell you that Chloe was pregnant, you mean? And that
was six weeks ago.”
“Was that really six weeks ago? Bloody hell, time flies.”
“Doesn’t it just. We’ve got an appointment next week for the first scan.”
“Right, well, I hope it goes okay.”
Dad’s interest in his unborn grandchild ends with a swig of lager.
“Thanks for the card, by the way,” I remark sarcastically.
“Err, what card?”
“The card to say congratulations. We received at least a dozen from
friends and family, although I couldn’t help but notice we didn’t receive one
from you and Melanie.”
“Must have been a breakdown in communications. I thought Mel had
sent one.”
“She didn’t.”
“Oh, sorry. Not the end of the world, though.”
“I presume your phone also had a breakdown.”
“Eh?”
“Six weeks, Dad, without a single call to ask how we’re doing. Come to
think of it, the only time you ever call me is when you want something.”
“I’m a busy man. Doesn’t mean I don’t care, though.”
“If only that were true.”
 “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I climb off the stool and lean against the counter, directly opposite Dad.
“I might have lied about being in the area. I dropped by because I want to
ask you a question.”
“What question?”
“I know it was seventeen years ago, but do you remember when Mum
left?”
“Not really. I was about to get hitched to that dozy mare, Paula, and I’d
long stopped caring about your piss-head of a mother.”
“You’d long stopped caring about me, too.”
“That ain’t true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I wasn’t the greatest dad in the world, but I did my best.”
“But when it truly mattered, you didn’t do your best — you turned your
back on me.”
“What are you banging on about?”
“You knew that Mum was in a state. She was drinking herself to death
and getting into trouble with the law.”
“That woman stopped being my problem the minute our divorce came
through. I didn’t know what she was doing.”
“You did because Granddad told you. In fact, he paid you a visit and
begged you to look after me because Mum couldn’t cope. You told him I
wasn’t your problem.”
“I don’t know where you heard that from, Boy, but it’s bullshit.”
“I heard it from Mum.”
The colour drains from Ron Mason’s face, and he shuffles awkwardly
before swilling another mouthful of lager.
“Which rock did she crawl out from,” he then spits. “I hope you told her
to fuck off and never contact you again. Cheek of the woman after all these
years.”
“Actually, I didn’t tell her to fuck off. It was me who got in touch with
her.”
“Why the hell would you do that?” he snarls. “She’s a selfish bitch who
don’t give a shit about anyone but herself.”
“How do you know that?”
“How do I know what?”
“That’s she’s a selfish bitch?”
 “She fucked off to Greece when you were a nipper, didn’t she? What
more proof do you need?”
“That’s a good question, Dad, and up until a few months ago, I thought I
had all the proof I needed. Turns out I was wrong, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I went to visit her in Dorset, where she’s lived for the last decade. She
married a lovely bloke called Colin, and they run a B&B together.”
“You went to see her?”
“Yes, because I wanted to know what kind of woman abandons her
teenage son to go live with a waiter she met on holiday.”
“Someone you can’t trust, Boy. Whatever excuses she spun, I hope you
weren’t stupid enough to believe her.”
“You’re right in one respect, Dad — someone didn’t tell me the truth
when Mum walked out on me seventeen years ago.”
“I hope you’re not pointing the finger at me.”
“Not for that, no. It was Granddad who lied to me.”
“No surprise there,” Dad snorts. “I never did like that bloke.”
“He wasn’t that keen on you either, if memory serves. He said you were a
parasite and an unfit father.”
“Yeah, like he was father of the year material. It was his daughter who
fucked off to Greece and left her son at home.”
“So I thought, but Mum never did go to Greece, and she certainly never
set up home with a waiter. She left because Granddad told her to leave.”
“What?”
“He wanted to protect me from her alcoholism and the chaotic life she
was struggling with. Mum was on a destructive downward spiral, and
Granddad feared she would drag me down with her.”
“So, your mum was a drunk and your granddad a liar. What kind of man
tells his grandson a lie like that, the twisted old bastard?”
“You don’t get it, do you, Dad?”
“Get what?”
“Granddad lied for good reason. He asked you to look after me, and you
told him to piss off.”
“No, I never, but what does any of this matter now? It’s ancient history,
and you’ve done alright, despite a rocky few years as a nipper.”
“I’ve done alright because of what Granddad did for me.”
“Eh? You said he lied to you.”
 “He did, but it was a well-intentioned lie.”
“No such thing in my book.”
“I might have agreed with you a few months back, but not now.”
“You can’t justify a lie, Boy. Ever.”
“I disagree,” I reply, folding my arms. “You won’t remember this, but my
schoolwork was suffering because of Mum’s wayward behaviour, and
Granddad knew I’d never pass my GCSE exams if I was constantly
worrying about her. He sent her away to sort herself out and told me the lie
about Greece, knowing I’d be angry, but I’d get over it. In his view, it was
better for me to hate Mum for a few months than jeopardise my entire
future. And he was right — hating is easy, but caring takes a lot out of you.”
Dad seems bored by the conversation and checks his watch for the
second time.
“This is all very interesting, but I’ve got stuff to be getting on with.”
“Don’t you want to know what happened to your ex-wife after she left?”
“Not really.”
“I’ll tell you anyway, just so you know.”
“I said, I’ve—”
“Mum spent the best part of seven years struggling with her addiction, in
and out of prison for a series of petty crimes. She needed a rehab place but
couldn’t afford it, and then she got into an abusive relationship with a
psycho who used to beat her black and blue. That, as you might expect,
didn’t end well, and she eventually ended up in a woman’s refuge down in
Bournemouth.”
“Sounds like she’s a basket case, and you’re better off without her in your
life.”
“I was better off, which is why Granddad did what he did. Life moves on,
though, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Mum eventually secured a place in rehab and managed to deal with her
demons. That’s when she met Colin, and he’s been her rock ever since. To
Mum’s credit, she’s been sober for nine years now and totally turned her
life around.”
Footsteps tap from the hallway, and Melanie appears in the doorway,
dressed in shorts and a t-shirt.
“Jake,” she huffs as a form of greeting. “I didn’t know you were here.”
 “He only popped in for a quick chat,” Dad responds. “He’ll be going in a
mo, won’t you, Boy?”
“Yes, I will.”
I turn to Melanie. “I just need a quick word with Dad, in private, before I
go.”
“I’m about to start dinner,” she protests. “So, say what you need to say,
but I’ve got veg to prepare.”
“Melanie,” I calmly reply. “Let me rephrase my request. Please, take
your fake tits, your fake teeth, your fake tan, and your whiter-than-white
arsehole, and fuck off back upstairs.”
She stares back at me, open-mouthed.
“Don’t you talk to my wife like that,” Dad growls. “You’re well out of
order.”
“Am I? Considering your wife paid for her cosmetic enhancements with
my money, I think I’ve every right to speak to her how I please.”
Ron takes a step forward, puffing out his chest.
“Get out of my house.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going, but I wanted to clarify that there won’t be any
more payments from Mum for you to steal. Your scam is over.”
“I ain’t got the first clue what you’re on about, and I won’t warn you
again — get out.”
“It’s odd that you don’t know because Mum showed me her bank
statements and the three sizeable payments she transferred into your
account over the last four years — her way of helping a son she was too
ashamed to contact directly.”
“Out! Now!”
To emphasise his demand, he takes another step towards me, fists
clenched.
“Go on, Ron,” I smile back at him. “Take a swing — I dare you.”
He accepts my dare, but he’s old, overweight, and ponderously slow. I
duck down as a lazy haymaker breezes over my head. When I straighten up,
I let fly with a punch of my own, catching my so-called dad in the face with
a potent jab. He staggers back until his shoulders meet the fridge, and then
his legs give way.
“You bastard!” Melanie yells as she squats down to deal with her fallen
husband.
 “I wish,” I snort. “I’d much rather have no father than a piece of shit like
Ron Mason.”
“Get out!” she screams. “Before I call the police.”
“Call them, see if I care. It’ll give me a chance to explain how you’ve
spent thousands of pounds that was never yours to spend.”
With Ron still dazed, I slip a hand into my jacket pocket and extract an
envelope. I then drop it into his lap.
“That’s a letter from my solicitor. You’ve got thirty days to repay every
penny of the money you stole before I start legal proceedings.”
“Fat chance,” Melanie hisses. “We haven’t got that kind of money, so
good luck getting blood out of a stone.”
“I know you have it because you paid the deposit on this house with your
ill-gotten gains. So, you’ve got two choices: sell it, or remortgage it.
Frankly, I don’t give a shit how you raise the money, but if it’s not in my
bank account within thirty days, I’ll see you both in court.”
I step over Ron Mason’s splayed legs and shoot a final glare at Melanie.
“Oh, one more thing,” I add. “Just in case you were wondering, you’re
not invited to the christening.”
Without so much as a glance back, I stride up the hallway and don’t stop
until I’m back in the car.
I’ve had a few weeks to process the truth, and even though I initially
wanted to confront Ron and Melanie the minute I found out, I’m glad I
waited. Now, I can truly savour the moment I’ve expunged the last negative
element from my life. And, God, it feels good.
I slide my sunglasses on, turn up the volume on the stereo, and set off
home.
The drive offers an opportunity to ponder an unexpected turnaround on
the parent front. Not that Ron Mason was ever much of a father, but I
always thought he’d be part of my future, and Tina Mason very much part
of my past. Now, the opposite is true.
After I eventually summoned the will to call my mum, we spent almost
two hours on the phone. However, it wasn’t until I drove down to Dorset
and spent the day with her and Colin that I got to see the full picture; quite
literally, as it turned out.
Stepping into their home, I was amazed to see so many framed photos of
me, Chloe, and Finn dotted around the house. I then learned that Mum had
contacted Ron a few years back to see how I was doing and if there was any
chance of a reconciliation. Part of her reason for reaching out was that she
wanted to set up a trust fund for Finn. Ron saw an opportunity to line his
pockets and told Mum I’d never entertain the idea of her being back in my
life, let alone accept her money. However, he could pass the money on and
pretend it was his gift. To bolster his proposal, he sent Mum a dozen photos
as proof that he was a proud father and grandfather and a significant part of
our lives.
Those photos were all copied from my Facebook profile and printed off
to look like Ron had captured them at various family events he never
attended. He also kept all three payments Mum intended for us: £10,000 for
Finn’s trust fund, £5,000 as a belated wedding present, and another £5,000
in lieu of all the birthdays Mum had missed.
If I hadn’t made the phone call, I’d never have known about the money,
but more importantly, I’d never have known how much Tina Johnson, as
she is now known, wanted to make amends.
When we finally met, I listened to her story, and it was hard to feel
anything other than pity. It was clear from my face how I felt, and Mum
reached across the table and gripped my hand. She has carried the mistakes
of her younger self like a cross — more shame, regret, and remorse than
perhaps anyone deserves. However, Mum told me that walking out of my
life was the only decent decision she made during those turbulent years, and
if she had to do it again, she would. In her words, she was on the road to
self-destruction, and the only way to avoid dragging me along was to sever
all ties. She could have done that in any number of ways, but she said that I
was too caring, too compassionate to abandon her, which is why Mum
colluded with Granddad and they jointly settled on the lie about Greece. In
some way, her decision, even though it came at a huge cost, was utterly
selfless.
As a wise man once told me, not all lies are equal.
I turn into Norton Rise and pull up on the driveway. Within a few
seconds of opening the front door, Finn comes charging down the hallway
to greet me.
“Daddy!”
I scoop my son up, and we share a proper welcome-home hug.
“Did you have a good day at school?” I ask.
“It wasn’t the best,” he replies, his expression serious. “I didn’t feel very
worky today.”
 I try hard to stifle a snort of laughter.
“Don’t worry about it, mate. We all have days like that, but I bet you
have a great day on Monday.”
“Do you think?”
“Yeah, and if not, there’s always Tuesday.”
Seemingly reassured, Finn scoots off to the lounge. I saunter into the
kitchen, guided by the aroma of Beef Wellington. Chloe is sitting at the
table, tapping away at her mobile phone. I lean over, and we kiss before my
wife gets to her feet.
“How’d it go?” she asks nervously.
“Are you referring to my day at work or conversation with Ron and
Melanie?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Work couldn’t be better. Robbie confirmed that the completion of my
probation period is a mere formality. He also mentioned a new and
improved contract.”
“That’s fantastic news. I’m so proud of you.”
Chloe rewards me with a hug.
“As for Ron and Melanie, my visit was short but so, so sweet. I wish I’d
taken a photo of their faces when I dropped the solicitor’s letter in Ron’s
lap.”
“I hope they’re rightfully ashamed of themselves.”
“I don’t know if they’re capable of shame, but I’d rather not dwell on
their screwed-up lives. We’ll get the money back, and then we’ll never have
to think about either of them ever again.”
“Amen to that.”
Chloe delivers a kiss as a full stop to her statement.
“Anyway,” I say. “On a more positive note, how’s our bump today?”
“He or she is fine.”
“That’s good to hear. I hope you’re not overdoing it at work.”
“No, not at all. They couldn’t be more supportive if they tried.”
“The complete opposite of Loxford’s, then,” I chuckle.
“Ah, but Loxford’s is no more.”
“Eh?”
I can tell by the glint in Chloe’s eye that she has gossip to share.
“Spill the beans, then, Mrs Mason. What’s happened?”
 “Well, I heard from Amy this morning — the takeover is done and
dusted, and the new owners have ditched the name Loxford’s.”
“More good news.”
In the weeks after I shared Rick Bingley’s WhatsApp messages, it would
be fair to say that Loxford’s reputation fell off a cliff. The social media
posts went viral, and several national newspapers picked up on the story,
interviewing many of the female employees. Their statements were so
damning that the board of directors had no choice but to immediately sack
Rick Bingley, Danny Oswald, and seven other members of the management
team. They even canned the managing director.
As for Rick Bingley, he seemed to disappear off the face of the earth for a
few weeks, but a month after I paid a visit to his flat, Rick was arrested. The
police found him wandering naked up Aldervale High Street at 3.00 am,
singing Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of his voice. No one knows for sure,
but rumour has it that he’s suffering from a rare form of insomnia. I spotted
a post on the Aldervale fans’ forum stating that Rick had been committed to
a psychiatric hospital somewhere in Yorkshire. I sent a message to Rachel
and Amber, sharing the news — both were grateful and relieved.
Finn comes dashing into the kitchen. “When is dinner?”
“Not long, sweetie,” Chloe replies. “About fifteen minutes.”
“Can Mungo eat dinner with us?”
“I don’t think he’ll like Beef Wellington.”
“He might,” Finn ventures.
“Why don’t we go and ask him?” I suggest.
He approves of my suggestion and grabs my hand. “Okay, Daddy.”
With my son leading the way, we enter the lounge. Mungo is lying on the
sofa, asleep.
“Should I wake him up?” Finn asks.
“Probably not.”
“Why do cats sleep so much, Daddy?”
“Um, I think they love dreaming … a lot.”
Happy with my answer, Finn steps over to the sofa and gently strokes
Mungo’s ginger fur. The latest addition to the Mason clan slowly opens his
eyes and purrs loudly.
“Do you like Beef Wellington?” Finn whispers to him.
Mungo closes his eyes.
“I think we’ll take that as a no, mate.”
 A week after his namesake disappeared, we collected Mungo from the
pet shop, although we hadn’t settled on a name at that point. When Finn
suggested calling his kitten Mungo, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. In fact,
there was still a lot about the original Mungo I wasn’t sure about. However,
Chloe and Finn outvoted me, so the unnamed kitten became Mungo.
Whether it was connected or not, the kitten’s arrival seemed to mark a
change in Finn. After he bizarrely intimated that his imaginary friend and
Mungo were the same person, he stopped mentioning Mungo altogether. To
this day, he hasn’t indulged in any conversations in his bedroom, but we
haven’t dared ask if Mungo has finally left for good. Finn is as happy now
as he’s ever been, and that’s all we ever wanted.
As for the man himself, I’ve come to terms with the fact I’ll never see
him again or truly understand who Mungo Thunk really was. At one point, I
did open my laptop, and just as I was about to google Mungo’s name, I
paused and asked myself what I hoped to achieve. Mungo came into my life
and somehow turned it around. There was and is nothing to be gained by
understanding why or how — I’m just grateful he entered our lives at all,
however briefly.
I’m also grateful that I have everything I ever wanted. I am happy and
content, and I have people in my life I care about, and they care about me.
I’ve also come to realise that some questions are best left unanswered. I’ve
changed my thinking for the better, and I’m willing to accept I’ve got all the
answers I need.
“Daddy, why do we always have dinner before pudding?” Finn suddenly
asks. “Why can’t we have pudding first?”
“Um …”
Well, maybe not all the answers.
 THE END

BEFORE YOU GO…

Thank you so much for reading The Way We Thunk and I really hope
you enjoyed Jake’s adventure with Mungo. If you did, I’d be eternally
grateful if you could post a (hopefully positive) review on Amazon, or even
a star rating. Positive reviews are the only way independently published
books like mine can compete with those from the big publishing houses.

And, if you haven’t read it yet, don’t forget there’s another novel
featuring Mungo available from Amazon. Meeting Mungo Thunk is
available in ebook, paperback, and audiobook format.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, I’d like to thank you for reading this novel. Without
my small but loyal band of readers, I wouldn’t be able to write full-time, so
I owe you all for my career. I’d also like to thank my team of beta readers:
Lisa Gresty, Tracy Fisher, and Adam Eccles. Their input and keen eye for
typos helped to create a clean manuscript.

And finally, I’d like to thank my editor, Sian Philips. This is the only
part of the book that Sian hasn’t edited, so there’s bound to be a typo
somewhere on this page.