Dark Winter

11

Bromley, UK

Thursday 8 May, 09:10 hrs

Kelly’s grandparents stood outside their 1980s bungalow, beneath a small wooden sign saying ‘The Sycamores’. Carmen was still fussing. ‘Have you got your key? We’re going to Safeway’s later.’

I dangled it at her as Kelly put on her seat-belt, the expression on her face as dull as the day outside. I started the engine and they waved us off as if we were leaving for ever, not just for the day. Carmen always got anxious when it came to departures. Apparently she hadn’t been the same since her sister, her only other flesh and blood, went on holiday to Australia soon after Carmen’s wedding and ending up marrying a guy in Sydney who had the money to buy his own house. Something like that, anyway – I’d glaze over when she got to the bit about Jimmy never really earning enough to buy a whole house in Bromley.

Carmen and Jimmy hadn’t changed at all since I’d last seen them quite a few years ago, and neither had anything in their lives. But I guess they must have been like that pretty much since they first got married and Jimmy started to work his bollocks off to keep Carmen up with the Australian Joneses. He still had the same nearly spotless fifteen-year-old Rover, and Carmen still kept the place as immaculate as a show-house. She still blamed me for her son’s murder, even though I hadn’t been there. We’d both been in the same line of work, and that was good enough for her. They were both still pissed off that Kev and Marsha had made Josh and me joint guardians of their kids in their will.

Kelly just sat there, not saying a word, staring out of the window at the busy streets. Josh was right about the mood-swings; right now she was so down I wasn’t sure she’d ever swing back, but then I remembered how far she’d come since I first found her. I wondered if it was something I’d said, or something she’d heard me saying to her grandparents. I’d always tried hard not to let her know what I really thought about them. This morning it was especially tough, because I’d overheard Jimmy agreeing with Carmen that Kelly’s problem was entirely my fault. Nothing to do with that nice man Josh: he’d taken her on out of the kindness of his heart, introduced her personally to God and given her lots of love and care. No, mark her words, none of this would have happened if I hadn’t insisted on looking after her myself in the beginning, and left her with that good Christian family instead. Well, tough shit. It had happened and, fuck it, they’d be dead soon, so they’d better get all their complaining in while they could. I caught a glimpse of myself grinning like an idiot in the rear-view mirror. Somehow Carmen and Jimmy really brought out the best in me.

We were just south of the Thames and passing a big McDonald’s. I felt a need to fill the silence. All I’d been getting for the last ten minutes was ‘yes’, ‘no’, ‘maybe’, ‘whatever’. I pointed at the McDonald’s window posters, doing my best to keep the grin in place. ‘Hey, look, the McRib’s back. Shall we get some afterwards?’

‘Yeah, whatever.’

I stole a glance at her. What the fuck was going on inside that young head of hers? Probably much the same as went on in mine. I’d just learnt to hide it better.

The Moorings was a large townhouse in a leafy square overlooking central gardens that were fenced and gated so that only the residents could enjoy the trimly cut grass. Everything about the area and the building said that this was an institution that specialized in the disorders of the rich, which was unfortunate because I wasn’t.

I found a parking space for the cheapo-hire-deal Corsa, turned off the engine and looked at Kelly as I undid my seat-belt. ‘Looks as lovely as ever, doesn’t it?’

No response.

‘I always wonder why they call it the Moorings. I mean, we’re half a mile from the Thames – where are the boats?’

Still silent, Kelly unbuckled her belt as if the weight of the world was on her shoulders. I got out and fed a few pound coins into the meter, and we walked together up the three stone steps, between the nicely painted wrought-iron railings and through the glass doors. The reception area was as plush as the head office of a private bank, had Victorian oil paintings on the walls and smelt of furniture polish. An immaculately dressed woman came out from behind the desk and ushered us towards the waiting room with an offer of drinks. Kelly was still in ‘whatever’ mode so I asked for a Coke, and white, no-sugar coffee. We knew the way, and settled down side by side on a big red leather chesterfield. A spread of property magazines for the South of France and the Caribbean lay on the low glass table in front of us. Nice work if you can get it, this therapy business.

Kelly rested her hands on her jeaned thighs, but the rest of her seemed to crumple. Her index finger was still red and the skin was flaking under the plaster. I nodded down at it. ‘Does that thing hurt? I thought it would have cleared up by now.’

‘It’s just gone a bit weird. It’s fine, OK?’

The receptionist came in with the drinks and Kelly seemed to brighten. Then Dr Hughes walked into the room, with a big, warm smile. ‘Hello, Kelly, it’s been quite a while since we last met.’ She ignored me, which was reasonable: she wasn’t here for me. ‘What a wonderful-looking young lady you’re turning out to be.’

Kelly’s cheeks turned pink as we both stood up, but at least there was a hint of a smile at the sight of Dr Hughes, and that made me feel a whole lot better.

Hughes looked as striking as ever behind her half-moon glasses. She must have been about sixty now, and still had a big grey hairdo that made her look more like an American news-reader than a psychiatrist. She was dressed in the kind of black trouser suit that you can only buy on a platinum Amex card. Chatting away with Kelly she got a few little nods in return, but then there was a huge grin, and suddenly whatever I was paying was worth it.

‘Shall we go upstairs for a while, Kelly?’ She opened the door and ushered her through.

Kelly turned to me. ‘You’re waiting here, right?’

‘I’ll be here.’

I sat down again as the fire door closed with a whisper.