‘They haven’t even been upstairs,’ he said.
‘What if this is about the murder?’
‘What?’ He shook his head.
‘About getting at us, getting at you.’
‘Vicky they nicked the TV, what are you on about?’
She stared at him, her mouth twisted with distaste, derision.
‘Look.’ He stepped closer to her, put out a hand, touched her shoulder. ‘I know it’s a bit of a shock but let’s keep it real. Some scallies took the telly. End of.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Vicky, ‘not by a long chalk.’
And she wasn’t wrong.
The other side of Christmas, not that there’d been much festivity in their house but they’d done their best to make it a happy time for the kids. Megan was young enough to be pleased with simple things, cheap toys off the market, the idea of it all. Kieran liked the music. Favourite Christmas songs on his old CD player. Mike and Vicky had debated whether to get him a new one but decided not. The lad loved his old one and they’d learnt the hard way not to force change on him. Getting him into new clothes as he grew bigger was challenge enough. They bought him a second-hand mobile handset in the forlorn hope that it would stop him hiding theirs. And there was one thing that would guarantee his pleasure. An addition to his collection of miniature steam trains. The engines were his passion.
The Museum of Science and Industry in town was a godsend. Full of working engines in tram sheds and railway memorabilia, it was one of the few manageable destinations for family outings. And it was free.
They’d gone there again after Christmas. Kieran’s face went still with appreciation as they stood in the great engine hall or went outside to watch the Planet locomotive chug its way past. His attention was fixed as though he was breathing in essence of steam train.
The families had bought presents for the kids, too, of course and they’d had a big get-together at Vicky’s mum’s. Mike was glad when it was all over and they were back to routine. He hoped he’d get a break in the New Year; find a job, anything for now.
Then, a Wednesday in January, close to teatime, Vicky rang him. Her voice shaking. ‘Mike, we’ve been in an accident.’ Her and Kieran. She’d collected the boy after work, was coming home.
Mike went cold right through. ‘Are you okay? And Kieran? Are you hurt? What happened?’
‘We’re okay,’ she said. ‘They drove right into us, Mike, on Chester Road. They just drove right into us.’ Mike’s throat went dry. He could hear Kieran in the background. The repetitive noise he made when he was upset. Like a moan, half a word. A chant.