if she was okay. He was pacing up and down his hallway waiting to hear Amy’s horn blare outside; she’d kill him if it was a false alarm, but he’d rather take the risk.
Stan Brookes was suffering bad, the worst kind of affliction a man his age could have. He finished his drink, put his glass on the bar and walked out of the pub. It was late and he was the last person she would want to see, but he had to do this. For days now the guilt of being a total selfish, greedy pig had finally got the better of him. He should be proud of his daughter for choosing a life of serving the Queen and country, not ashamed. His stupid, warped, messed-up, alcohol-addled mind had screwed up his sense of loyalty. He should never have stolen her necklace; he didn’t think he’d ever stooped that low in his entire life. He knew how much she cherished it and he’d taken it from her. She must hate him, but he knew she couldn’t hate him as much as he hated himself.
The rain was hammering down. Good, it was what he deserved. He set off on the walk to Morgan’s flat. If she wouldn’t open the door then he’d apologise through the letterbox. He had to do something to lift this heavy guilt that he was carrying around with him. He thought back to the days when life was different, happier. When he’d come home from work to find Sylvia in the kitchen baking scones and cakes; Morgan would be on the sofa or the old armchair, her nose in a book. She’d been a good kid and he’d never appreciated it, just like Sylvia had been a good wife. He’d had it all and now he had nothing; it was a sobering thought.
Twenty-five minutes later he turned into the drive of the fancy house Morgan rented the ground floor flat in. She was awake because all of her lights were on; that was good. He pressed the doorbell and heard the chime echo around the communal hallway. She didn’t answer. He realised it was late, and if he had credit on his phone he’d have phoned her and asked her to let him in.
Trudging around to the huge window that looked into her lounge, he pressed his face against the glass and saw a scene out of a horror film. There was a teenage boy in there, Morgan was on the floor and she looked… Oh God, his heart began to race. She wasn’t moving. His hands were shaking; he couldn’t get in to help her.
Pulling out his ancient Nokia, he dialled 999 – thank God that was free – and asked for police.
‘You have to come, I think he’s trying to kill her.’
‘What’s the address, sir?’
‘I don’t know the name, it’s a large house on Singleton Park Road; it’s turned into flats. You have to hurry, I can’t get in to help her.’ He ended the call.
The teenager was looping a length of fabric around Morgan’s neck. Stan hammered on the glass, startling him, and he rushed to look outside. Stan realised it was difficult because her lights were on and he stepped to one side so he couldn’t see him. The teenager drew the curtains across, blocking his view of what was happening inside and a sense of panic filled his chest. Looking around, he spied a huge rockery stone; that would do it.
The rock was slippery with the rain and coated with moss, but he managed to heave it up.
Stumbling forwards towards the window, he lifted it as high as he could and launched it at the glass. The sound as it cracked against the glass was ear-splitting and then shards of glass were flying everywhere. One embedded itself in his cheek, and he tore it out, not caring, and threw himself through the jagged, gaping hole. Landing heavily on one leg with a crash on the other side, he felt a sharp pain as another shard of glass sliced through the paper-thin flesh.
But they’d gone.
The front door was open and he pulled himself up, limping towards it.
Dripping rainwater and blood everywhere, he followed them out into the communal area.
Fifty-Seven
Amy drove fast on a good day, but tonight she was reckless and Ben was grateful to her for getting to his in a matter of minutes. They didn’t speak. His hands were shaking as he repeatedly tried to phone Morgan.