Dead Wrong - [43]

‘Next time,’ he sneered.

I kept my voice even. ‘Ricky, I’ve not done it yet but that’s not because I’m no good at my job and it’s not because he’s particularly clever. It’s just been a run of unfortunate circumstances.’ And your sister’s vanishing act hadn’t exactly helped.

He grunted. Not convinced.

I didn’t waste any more breath.

The day had been exhausting and little fragments from my meeting with Luke, my encounter with Mrs Siddiq and my visit to the police kept floating into my mind. I didn’t want to be thinking about work. After tea I got a big map of Wales out and some old camping guides. I showed Maddie some of the places we could go.

‘We haven’t even got a tent, Mummy,’ she said scornfully.

‘We can borrow one. Harry and Bev have got one.’

‘Ring them now, ask if we can.’

‘Of course,’ said Harry, to my delight, ‘we’re not using it.’

‘Given up the outdoor life?’ I joked.

‘No, just prefer the warmer climes.’

I tutted. ‘All right for those who can afford it.’

Harry and Bev had struggled financially for years, both working part-time so they could share raising their two boys. Then Harry had got bitten by the investigative journalist bug, which meant long hours and not much more money. He’d begun to use computers as a tool for accessing commercial and business information; then he discovered the Internet and never looked back. Bev meanwhile had an unexpected pregnancy, and a third son came along. She never went back to her job and Harry began to rake it in, helping businesses get on the Net.

Sometimes they still seemed bemused by the radical change in their circumstances and their bank balance.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked. ‘You’re bound to let it slip when I’m least expecting it.’

‘Saint Lucia, for three weeks.’

I groaned. ‘So, the tent?’

‘I’ll ferret it out and all its bits for you, and drop them over some time next week.’

‘Thanks.’

Maddie was delighted. Though, worryingly for me, her view of what we were heading for was coloured by romantic notions from her books and videos.

‘We can catch fish, Mummy,’ she said enthusiastically, ‘and make a fire and cook them.’

‘We’ll see.’ The classic get-out.

Chapter Twenty

Tuesday. I hadn’t had a swim for a week so went along to the early bird session as Ray could take the children to school. It was crowded and I couldn’t build up the pace I wanted because I had to do so much dodging and weaving to avoid kicking someone in the groin or getting raked by a full set of toenails.

They cleared the pool, just before nine, ready for the schools to use. I could hear the whine of a drill and someone whistling. They were having some building work done at the baths, taking down an old outhouse at the back and strengthening the roof and back wall. The drill stopped and silence descended. In my cubicle I took off my goggles and got out my towel.

Boom! The vibrations of the almighty thump that followed the explosion went right through me. I put my arms up to shelter my head, using my towel for extra protection. Not here, not now, I prayed. They can’t bomb here! My neck burned, there were spasms in my stomach. I held my breath and waited for the fallout, shivering, clammy with chlorine and sweat which prickled my armpits and broke onto my arms and sides. I was literally frozen with fear.

It was maybe a minute before intellect kicked in. No screams, no alarms, no bomb. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Demolition, not a bomb. Relief brought a new wave of sweat and shivering, I found my shower gel and walked unsteadily to the shower. My knees felt weak. I lathered and rinsed, lathered and rinsed, rubbing my legs, arms, stomach and shoulders vigorously, trying to take the gooseflesh away. By the time I was dressed, a crocodile of children were already filing into the place, chattering away, excitement breaking like bubbles and echoing round the room.

Diane was in the veg shop. Timing. ‘Come back for coffee?’

She opened her mouth to say no but I interrupted. ‘Please, there’s something I need to talk to you about, and I really don’t want to wait till tomorrow.’ We were going for a drink the following evening.

‘OK.’

She had to call at the Health Food shop on the way and I watched while she bought dried fruit, balsamic vinegar, apricot nectar and glycerine soap and geranium essential oil.

‘Money?’ I remarked.

‘Just got paid,’ grinned. ‘The Corkscrews.’

The Corkscrews was her name for a series of prints she’d done in metallic colours with Mediterranean blue and burnt orange for a swanky new Tapas bar in town. There were lots of spirals in them, hence the nickname. The bar liked them so much they were using her design as a logo for the menu and were having a wrought-iron and neon version done for the frontage.

At home I made coffee and we sat at the kitchen table. Digger muscled in on Diane who gave him a tickle behind the ear as she waited for me to explain.

I told her about my experience at the Baths. She let me get to the end and then waited a while before commenting. ‘It must be happening to lots of people. A sudden noise, flashbacks.’