She pulled into the drive and parked the car. Gathered up her bags and jacket and went in the side gate expecting the french windows would be open. The garden was empty.
Owen was in the living room, playing his games. Chisel-faced men in uniforms, men with guns, sweeping through abandoned houses. ‘You could have rung,’ he complained without turning round. ‘I needed that money.’
Rage reared in her. Owen turned, saw her face, took in her uniform, the blood, the overshoes. ‘Oh, God.’ His voice had softened.
‘They shot a boy,’ she began, sorrow replacing anger. Her fingers stiff, splayed bouncing on her lips. ‘Your age.’
He swallowed, uncertain how to respond.
‘In Hulme, on the field by the dual carriageway, near the bridge. I couldn’t save him.’ Tears spilt down her cheeks, blurring everything. ‘Sorry.’ She wiped at her eyes.
Owen was blushing, his face and his neck red. ‘You could give us a hug,’ she chided him. He looked at her uniform.
‘It’s dry,’ she said.
He lumbered to his feet, came closer. She wrapped her arms around him. Still a child really, though he was taller than her now, broad like his father. She was careful not to weep all over him. They were on their own together and she always tried to remember she was the grown-up, not to expect him to meet her emotional needs. She withdrew. ‘I need to shower. I didn’t get any cash. It’ll have to be tomorrow.’
He grunted. Went back to his game.
She undressed. Her tights were stuck to her knees with discs of blood. She peeled them off, put them in the bin. She soaped and scrubbed her hands and feet, then washed her hair in the shower. She sat down under the water, knees bent up, resting her head on them. She let the water drum upon her upper back, where her spine felt rigid, fused hard as stones. She tried to clear her mind but each time she closed her eyes, Danny swung into view: his eyes on her, that steady warmth, looking joyous almost, just before she lost him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered over and over. Sitting there until her back was numb from the jets and the room was dense with steam.
Feeling raw and slightly giddy, Fiona sat down to eat with Owen. It was a fine June evening and they ate on the patio. The air was full of drifting seeds, woolly clumps from the stand of poplars that ran along the edge of the meadows near the river. She and her ex, Jeff, had chosen the house because of its location. They were still close to the city, fifteen minutes in the car to town outside rush hour, but had the advantages of being on the edge of the housing development with uninterrupted views across the meadows to the Mersey. A small back garden and a rather characterless semi were a small price to pay for the pleasure of being close to the open land.