Page 87 of Thick as Thieves
I grab my coat, a baseball cap of Xan’s, shove on my boots—a pair of Blundstone cast offs from Kell—and set off for Marshall’s. It’s literally just at the end of the road. I could go the back way. But with all this rain, I’d end up a muddy mess, so I go for the road.
I sprint down the lane, trying to dodge the sheets of water coming at me, and get there in record quick time. Soaked and out of breath, I knock and go straight in, shedding my wet coat in the entrance hall. “Marshall, you home?” I call out. I hear him banging about upstairs and he comes down combing his hair. “It needs a cut,” I tell him.
“Well, next time, bring them scissors and you can do it for me.” He grants me his biggest smile, his eyes lighting up at seeing me.
“I made a mess last time,” I remind him. I don’t want to have that responsibility.
“No, you learnt how not to cut my hair,” he says grinning.
I roll my eyes at him. “On your head, literally,” I say and grin. “Short back and sides coming up. Just buy some horse clippers and I can do it easy.”
“I don’t want to be bald,” he counters, looking into the mirror on the wall.
I notice he has his nice shirt on and a clean pair of jeans. “You got a date?” I ask him cheekily.
He frowns at me. “No chance. There’s only room for one female in my life, and I’m looking at her,” he says. “I’m going to Greystones’ to play cards, midarlin’. Are you coming with me?”
“No. Jonno said there are a couple of coppers in the party. So I’ll give it a miss. Don’t want to draw attention to my abandoned status, even if I’m happy about it.”
Since my mum's death, my dad seems to be unable to stand the house we all lived in. And me. So he leaves, and I’m happy when he’s not here. But it makes life hard. Mainly because of the busybodies in the village.
“Well, I’ve got us some tea.” He points to the oven. “I’ve had mine, was just about to ring you to come over. Drop me a text if you’re staying here. If not, I'll see you after school tomorrow. Go to Pat’s. It’s Friday and she’s cooking.”
He watches my food intake like a hawk, they both do. Pat Greystone and him. They know I skip meals if I can’t be bothered. But who wants to cook for themselves every night? Certainly not me.
I grin at him as the door opens, and in comes Jonno.
“They’re waiting for you, Marsh. Ian Sawyer is useless. His tell is he touches his right ear. Can you take some cash off him? Please! That tip should be worth at least £100,” he predicts.
“If I win big, I’ll be sharing with you both.” He smiles and walks out, leaving me to sort my tea from the oven.
I am so full,my stomach is bursting. “I love lasagne. Italian food is the best.” I tap my tummy. “A nice pud would just finish me off.” I get up and rummage in the fridge. “Trifle, yum.” I sit down and spoon a small portion into a bowl,
“Thought you were full?” says Jonno, eyeing my straining skirt.
“I am, but I have to have pudding. It’s the law,” I say, and hoover it up.
I sit opposite Jonno and regard him. “Did you find anything else? If I don’t get to sixteen, they’ll make me leave. Mrs. Jenkins is watching me. I know she means well, but I can’t, Jonno. We have to do something.”
He regards me. His chocolate eyes look black in anger as he contemplates my leaving. His head dips ever so slightly. Oh God, that’s his stress tell.
“What? What is it? I’ve seen that look before. You know something. Are they coming? Did they say something at the cards table?”
He shakes his head and stands up, walking over to the big dresser in the corner of the room. Marshall leaves everything in the world on that dresser, and if you want to find something, that is the first place we all go.
Jonno pulls open a drawer and takes out a small book. I look at him, puzzled. Laying the book down, I can see it’s a photo album. He opens the book at a photo, tapping it as I stare down at myself in the image. But that’s not right. I have on older fashioned clothing, and I’m in a place I’ve never been to before. An old stately home is in the background, and I don't recognise it. I don’t recognise it because it is not me. It’s someone who looks like me. Very much like me.
I pull my eyes up to Jonno. “Who?” I ask.
“Marshall's mother,” he states, and I frown. I sit back in the chair, my mind whirring around, finally settling to the only logical conclusion.
Marshall O’Clery is my father, not that clown Frank Parker. Thank God.
“When did you know?” My eyes are unable to tear away from the face of the woman in the photo, my heart rate picking up in panic, exhilaration, relief.
“Well, I didn’t know ‘til I found this, and we still don’t know for certain. We’ll have to do a DNA test. I’ve researched it and ordered a kit.” He leans down and takes a kit out of his rucksack. Oh my god. He’s already got the bloody kit. “I didn’t think we’d get a swab, or saliva, so I took an executive decision and went with hair.” He finally looks up at me with the kit in his hands. Ignoring my face, which is horrified, he carries on. “You cut his hair. We need a follicle as well, or a few.”
I stand as if on automatic pilot, going over to the comb he was just using. He usually cleans it straight away, but tonight, as Jonno had come in and he was rushing, he didn’t. We inspect the comb, choose some hairs, and fill the bags to send off.
