Page 68 of Convict's Game
“My friend used to live here. Do you know if the landlord is around? We had a couple of questions.”
“Fuck off. The TV was already here when I got this place. It’s mine.”
“We aren’t interested in taking your television, only in knowing the dates my friend lived here.”
“Ring the CHP, love. Don’t fucking bother me.”
He slammed the window shut.
Convict’s eyebrows drew together. “I know what the CHP is. Community Housing Project. It’s ex-prisoner accommodation. I must’ve stayed here after coming out of jail one time.”
He said it casually, but his fingers curled around mine. Like he was trying to hold on to something solid while the rest of him slipped back into shadows.
“Not recently, judging on the new occupant.”
He gave a short laugh. “Agreed. I think we can move on.”
We returned to the car, and he plugged in the second address, Linnet Road, back on the English side.
“It stands to reason that my crew would have the up-to-date address. I just wanted to check both out anyway.” He drove out of the suburb. When we came to a halt at lights, he darted a look my way. “Is it weird for you to be shacked up with an ex-con?”
“You introduced yourself to me by your nickname. It’s not like this is new information.”
He rolled his shoulders and tore his gaze to the road instead of me. “There’s a nickname and then there’s seeing a guy like that. The alternative version of me in four decades’ time.”
I recoiled. “Why do you think you’d become like that?”
He shrugged. “He triggered a memory. Not of him specifically, but of broken men stuck in the same routine, day after day. I think I’m remembering my jail time.”
“Then don’t go back to jail again.”
The glum expression lifted. “Thanks, heir-to-an-empire girl. I’ll be sure to remember that.”
He reached out for me, this time landing his warm hand on my knee. For the jaunt out, I’d chosen a plaid skirt and cream wide-necked jumper, overjoyed to have my wardrobe back.
Convict inched his fingers under the skirt’s hem.
He didn’t go any further, just stroking and indenting my thigh, but by the time he parked up at the second house, I was fixated on his touch.
Again, he climbed out and opened my door, that knowing gleam in his eye when he helped me out. It faded when he took in the building.
“What will be behind door number two?” he quipped.
The place was a block of flats, four storeys high. A long path to the front door crossed a concrete patio, and two old gents rested on a bench to one side, the cool early evening clearly not bothering them.
Convict raised a hand to them as we passed. Both stared back, then one gave a wheezing laugh.
“Convict. Thought you were dead, boy.”
Convict blinked then forced a smile. “Rumours of my death are exaggerated. How’s it going? All good around here?”
The man chuffed. “Aye, but I’m surprised to see you back. Ma won’t be pleased. The lass a human shield?”
‘Ma’ as in his mother? He hadn’t been sure if he had family.
Convict stiffened. His hand tightened around mine. “Is Ma in now?”
The front door swung open, and a woman marched out. Aged probably in her forties, she had dark-red hair and ruddy cheeks. Anger marked her stomp down the path. “You’ve got some nerve.”
