was ill. It never made any difference. For the last five years, since the worst day of her life, her brain had somehow convinced itself that she needed to be awake at this godforsaken hour and so she was. As she lay there, she heard a loud snore coming from the direction of the living room and groaned, pulling a pillow over her head to muffle the noise. She was hoping it had been a bad dream, that her useless father hadn’t really turned up late last night and was now drooling and snoring on her one and only chair. Forcing herself to get out of bed, she pulled her dressing gown around her, pushed her feet into the big, furry slippers she’d bought herself on her last shopping trip to Primark, then went into the living room to shake his shoulder. Bad enough he was here, in person, stinking out her lovely flat; she wasn’t going to listen to that awful noise which sounded like a cross between a chainsaw and a hoover. Grabbing his shoulder, she shook it. He didn’t flinch, so she used more pressure.
‘Stan,’ she hissed into his ear.
He didn’t stir and she felt her blood begin to boil. Grabbing her headphones from the laptop, she pushed them into her ears and selected a playlist of nineties dance music to drown him out. Then she set about making herself a bacon sandwich. She didn’t really want to make him breakfast, didn’t want to give him anything, but she had been brought up better than that. Her mum had taught her to be a kind, selfless girl with good manners. So, she made him one, covering it with tin foil.
She wrote ‘Stan’ on a Post-it note. Not ‘Dad’; it was never ‘dad’. Not since her mum’s death. Setting the coffeemaker going, she went into the bathroom, showered then came back in to eat her sandwich. Filling her travel mug with fresh coffee and screwing on the lid, she looked in disgust at the crumpled mess that was still snoring in her chair. She left her bedroom door open while she dried her hair, hoping the noise would wake him. Then she stamped around as she dressed in her uniform, tugging her black Magnum boots on so her footsteps echoed even louder. She was raging by this point; she didn’t want to leave him in her flat. She looked at the clock on the wall: it was now 5.45; she didn’t start work until 7.00. But she couldn’t stay here, she needed to see what was happening with Olivia Potter; she was desperate to know if the family had been found and told the news. Better to go into work early; at least she could sit in peace before the rest of her shift came in, and catch up on the logs. She set about writing him a note.
Stan,
Breakfast is on the kitchen worktop. Do not be here when I come home, there is nothing of value for you to steal. Don’t forget where I work. I’ll report you then hunt you down if you take so much as a hair slide that belongs to me. If you have nowhere to go, then you’d better get yourself to the homeless shelter on Ann Street and see if they can help. If not, go find one of your friends to stop with. This flat is not big enough for the both of us and I’m not risking my tenancy by letting you stay here another night. It’s not your new crash pad, I don’t want you here.
Morgan.
She pushed it into his hand, so he’d find it when he woke up and prayed he’d be long gone by the end of her shift. Just in case he did get any ideas, she grabbed her laptop and stuffed it into a tote bag along with her purse and headphones.
Leaving the flat, she let the door slam but doubted it would have made him stir. She was seething at not being tougher with him. She should never have let him in and now she hadn’t been able to kick him out.
The station was almost empty, aside from a couple of officers from the nightshift in the report writing room. Not wanting to give anyone the excuse to ask why she was in work so early, she headed upstairs to one of the offices she knew would be empty, at least until the start of her shift. She didn’t want to explain to