Page 55 of Don't Let Him In

“Well, she moved out about ten years ago. Couldn’t afford the rent as she was having to pay off all of Justin’s debts. I don’t know where she went, but it certainly wasn’t around here. I’d know if she was still in the area. And we weren’t quite close enough to stay in touch. So that was that. She handed me back the keys, we had a bit of a hug, she left. Never saw her again.”

Petula sighs, then glances down at the photo on Ash’s phone screen of Nick Radcliffe’s LinkedIn profile. She sniffs. “Slippery fuck,” she says. Then, “What is it with some women? I really don’t get it. Why can’t they see through men like him? What is it that he does? It’s like… black magic. Like that character from that sketch show, you know,Look into the eyes, not around the eyes, look into the eyes.You know the one? And everyone else can see what’s happening. But the woman in the middle of it, the woman being love-bombed and bamboozled and lied to and manipulated…” She shakes her head sadly. “Make sure your mum doesn’t let him at her money. Make sure she stays in control. But better still, make sure she gets rid of him.”

Laura Drummond is her name. Not Laura Warshaw. She didn’t take his name when they married. Her date of birth, according to the lease she signed for Petula’s house, is 28 June 1973. Her daughters are called Lola and Evie. They would be teenagers by now. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Ash heads back into the city center and finds a nice coffee shop where she eats a slice of cake and has a coffee and plugs in her phone to charge while she googles the hell out of the small amount of information she has to work with, and there it is—Laura Drummond, Proofreading Services, Peterborough PE2.

She finds the address on Maps and goes onto Street View. It’s a small office block on a suburban-looking high road. No doubt it will be closed today, nobody needs proofreading services over Christmas and the New Year, but she calls the number anyway and it goes to a voice message, a woman with a very soft voice telling the caller that she is away for the Christmas period and will be back on 2 January and please do leave a message. “If it’s urgent,” she says, “please send me an email.”

Dear Laura

My name is Aisling Swann.

My mother is dating a man called Nick Radcliffe who once went under the name of Justin Warshaw, to whom I believe you were once married?

I’d love to talk to you about him if you feel comfortable doing so, as I have some concerns about him.

Please reply to me here, or call me on the number below.

Many thanks Yours Ash

She presses send and hurls the message toward an unknown next chapter.

FIFTY

Al comes home the day after Boxing Day and immediately tells Martha that he will have to go back to the Midlands and stay with his mother until they can get some kind of care plan in place.

“But what about Nala?” she asks. “The childminder doesn’t start back until the second. And I can’t keep bringing her to the shop. It’s a nightmare.”

“Surely Troy can look after her. He’s going to be eighteen next month. He’s virtually an adult. Or Matt? He’s not going back to work until the New Year, is he?”

“I can’t ask Matt to look after my child!”

“Or your brother? I mean, surely there has to be somebody.”

“No, Al. There really isn’t.”

“Well, then maybe you’ll just have to leave the shop shut. Until the New Year.”

“Are you serious?”

“Martha.” Al sighs and looks down at her. His eyes are sad, a sheen of tears on their surface. “I am so tired. This is so stressful. I genuinely can’t bear it, I can’t bear that I have to go away from here, go away from you, that I have to sacrifice all of this to be withher. You know how I feel about her. You know I hate her. But she has nobody else. I can’t just abandon her. I have to do this. It kills me, but I have to.” A tear escapesfrom his eye and trickles down his cheek and Martha resists the temptation to wipe it away with the side of her hand, keeping a tight rein on her emotions in order to maintain her resolve.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll shut the shop. Milly will probably be happy. I know Jonah will be happy to have me home too.”

Al sighs at the mention of Jonah. “You know he sent me a message yesterday?”

“I know,” says Martha. “He asked for your number. What did it say?”

Al smiles sadly. “Here.” He passes her his phone.

Dear Al. How are you? I hope things are OK with your mum? We missed you today. I hope you will be home soon? Please send Mum a message so she knows because she gets really worried? See ya! J

Martha’s stomach rolls, first with sadness that her son sent such a sweet message, and then with pure rage and fury that Al hadn’t replied to it.

She hands him back his phone and sighs. “You couldn’t even reply to that.”

“I told you, Martha. I just wasn’t in the right headspace to look at my phone. It wasn’t that kind of day. And you’re right. I know you’re right. And I know this drives you mad, and to be honest, Martha, it drives me mad too. It really does. I hate being the way I am. I hate being so unreliable and so chaotic. I’ve been trying so hard to be a better person, you know I have. But every time I start getting myself together, something else comes along and upsets the equilibrium. And I know it doesn’t make any sense—it doesn’t make any sense to me either. I wish it did, but my brain, it just goes off on tangents, it spirals, it loses the thread, I lose track of time, I forget what I’m meant to be doing, and I know it’s not good enough, it’s really not good enough, but please, Martha, stay withme on this. I’ll have this sorted before you know it. I’ll get my mother a carer, I’ll get it all tied up, I’ll be back, and we can get on with our lovely life, OK? Can you give me that time? Please? And in return, I will try my hardest to remember to reply to messages, to stay in touch, to be what you need me to be, because, Martha, I love all of this so much, I love this life, I love those boys, I love our beautiful daughter, and I love you, Martha. I love you so much it kills me.”

The tears come again and for a moment Martha finds herself watching him clinically, objectively, like he’s an exhibition or a piece of performance art, not a real man expressing real feelings. And into her head, a word lands, like a brick.

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