her mind.”
I’d tried to persuade Mina to go back to pilot training, maybe have some counseling to get over whatever had caused the panic attack, but she wouldn’t be swayed. She took a couple of jobs, but she struggled to focus. After her mum died, she said she needed to take stock. “I’ve let her down,” she had said. “Dad too. All that money they paid for my training, and now Dad doesn’t even have the house they both loved. They just wanted me to make something of myself.”
“No,” I’d said gently. “They wanted you to be happy.” And she wasn’t happy—not joyous, the way she was the first time I met her. Tentatively, I suggested an alternative career, one that would still give Mina the travel she craved, the flying she loved. She wasn’t sure at first, but she went to an open day, did some research, and eventually went for it.
I chuck a tea towel at Becca. “They’re called cabin crew anyway, not air hostesses.”
Becca’s eyebrows lift. “PC much?” She laughs as she starts drying. “Hey, that’s good: you can be PC PC.”
“DS actually,” I mutter, but Becca’s talking to Sophia.
“Come on. Let’s get you bathed and ready for bed so Daddy can read you a story.”
“I want you to read to me,” I hear as they go upstairs.
I hear the bath running, and I pour myself a glass of wine, draining half of it in one swallow, haunted by the memories I’ve dredged up. Mina and I got a second chance at being together, and I’ve ruined it all.
Upstairs, Sophia runs around, giggling, and I know Becca is pretending to be the bath monster and that soon—when the bath is ready—the bath monster will catch Sophia and turn her into a monster too, with a bubble-bath beard and foam horns. It’s a favorite game, second only to “flying”: Mina on her back with her legs in the air, Sophia balanced on Mina’s flattened feet, arms and legs outstretched like a skydiver.
The doorbell rings, and I go to open the front door, my wineglass still in one hand. I pause, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. Sometimes Mo will come around when she sees my car outside, needing help with something, but not at this time of night, not in this weather. I put my glass on the ledge by the window and slowly draw back the upper bolt, checking before I do that Sophia is safely upstairs.
I was right to be wary. It’s a man, six foot tall and half again as wide. His head is shaved to a polish, the only shadow a greenish tattoo encircling his neck. “Alright, Adam?”
“Do I know you?”
The man gives me a slow smile. He’s wearing a black puffer jacket and jeans, boots with the leather worn through on the toes, exposing scuffed steel caps. “Nah. But I know you.”
“I haven’t got it,” I say. I put one hand on the door, but he’s too quick, stepping forward and propelling me back into the hall, up against the wall. My wineglass topples, the contents spilling across the floor. I bring up both hands, palms forward. “Listen, mate—”
“I aintcha mate. Don’t fuck with me, Adam. I’m doing my job, like you do yours. You’ve got till midnight, otherwise…” He doesn’t finish. He puts one meaty hand around my neck, pinning me to the wall. I deliver a swift punch to his stomach, but as I do so, he lifts his right arm and punches me square in the face. He releases me, and I punch him again, but blood’s pouring down my face, and he takes my arm and twists it behind my back, banging my head against the wall once, twice, three times. He lets me drop to the floor, and I roll to one side, arms up around my face, one leg kicking him away. But the space is small, and I can’t get clear, and a well-placed boot winds me so completely, I think I might pass out. He kicks me again and again, and I have no choice but to curl in a ball and protect my head and wait for him to finish.
It seems to go on for hours, although it can only be a couple of minutes. He stops, and I feel him standing over me, his breath labored.
“This is from the boss.”
He hawks, and a second later, I feel a globule of thick saliva on my ear. He leaves