“Mumma?”
“It’s all right, baby,” says Tish, “go back to sleepies.”
“Want my daddy,” she says croakily and Tish goes to hand her over to Teddy, who’s far too worried about the Curly Wurly thief to take her.
“Stay with Mum, there’s a good girl,” he tells her, and Cree turns her face over on Tish’s shoulder and tries to go back to sleepies.
Mustachio turns to me and thins his eyes. “Didn’t stop for a little drink down here when you came in late or anything, kids?” I shake my head.
“No,” says Mac. Mustachio nods, then so does Ginger, like he’s set him off. They both look us right up, then right down. Mac grabs Alfie’s collar and beckons him to come along as we turn back toward the beaded curtain at exactly the same time.
“Where you two going?” asks Teddy.
“What do you care?” he snaps back at him.
“Kenz, don’t be like that,” says Tish.
“Taking the dog out,” he says, and leaves the bar without turning back.
There’s this weird
Exorcist
mist in the road as we step outside. Going for a walk through Nuffing town center on an evilly cold March morning is not normally my idea of fun. Going for a walk through Nuffing town center on an evilly cold
Thursday
morning is even less fun, knowing that I’m supposed to go to work today. And going for a walk through Nuffing town center on an evilly cold March morning, on a Thursday, with a plastic bag of pissy underpants and an even pissier best friend, looking for “a famous junkie wearing my old pajamas and your shoes” as Mac puts it, is just about the worst thing I can imagine.
Mac is ignoring me again as Alfie leads the way, and it’s not just because he’s tired. Even when Mac’s tired he’ll manage a song or at the very least a hum as we walk along. But not now. I wish he would smile, just for a second, for any reason at all. I hate seeing him cross or sad or serious in any way. It just isn’t his nature. And he has the best smile. Even when I’m at my most horrible, he can cheer me up with his smile.
“I’ll take Alfie for a bit,” I offer, gesturing for Mac to hand me the dog leash as we lope down the hill.
“No, ’sfine,” he says, marching on. “You won’t be able to hold him.” He does look as though he is straining to hold on, which is good because it means Alfie has Jackson’s scent, but up until now he has only led us up one blind alley after another. First he takes us up the hill past the Torrance Lodge and down toward the railway station. Perhaps Jackson got on a train back to Cardiff? I put this to Mac.
“How the bloody hell would he have done that?” he laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. It’s one of his “Jody, you’re thick” laughs.
The cold wind claws my face like a winter wolf. “It’s possible, though.”
“No it’s not, Jody.”
“Oh. You think he wouldn’t understand the train timetables? I don’t understand train timetables, either. Maybe you’re right.”
Mac sighs. “Not because he wouldn’t understand the . . . because he’s got no money, he’s wearing pajamas, and he probably has no idea where he is, let alone where he needs to go.”
“That’s what I mean. Timetables.”
Back up the hill again we go, past the Torrance, down toward the flank of shut-up shops waiting for nine o’clock — Nuffing is a market town, but between the seventeenth-century yarn market and houses signed The Old Forge and The Dovecote , they’ve still managed to crowbar in the odd New Look clothing boutique and Boots drugstore. Nuffing’s just somewhere nice to drive through on the way to the Glastonbury Festival, really, there’s no real reason to stop unless you live here. Alfie lingers in a doorway to smell a furry hood that’s fallen off someone’s coat, but it comes to nothing. We’ve been walking for an hour. I’m fed up, groggy, filthy, tired, and terrified all in one sullen lump. We give Alfie another whiff of underpants and
schoom
! Off he goes again, back
“It’s all right, baby,” says Tish, “go back to sleepies.”
“Want my daddy,” she says croakily and Tish goes to hand her over to Teddy, who’s far too worried about the Curly Wurly thief to take her.
“Stay with Mum, there’s a good girl,” he tells her, and Cree turns her face over on Tish’s shoulder and tries to go back to sleepies.
Mustachio turns to me and thins his eyes. “Didn’t stop for a little drink down here when you came in late or anything, kids?” I shake my head.
“No,” says Mac. Mustachio nods, then so does Ginger, like he’s set him off. They both look us right up, then right down. Mac grabs Alfie’s collar and beckons him to come along as we turn back toward the beaded curtain at exactly the same time.
“Where you two going?” asks Teddy.
“What do you care?” he snaps back at him.
“Kenz, don’t be like that,” says Tish.
“Taking the dog out,” he says, and leaves the bar without turning back.
There’s this weird
Exorcist
mist in the road as we step outside. Going for a walk through Nuffing town center on an evilly cold March morning is not normally my idea of fun. Going for a walk through Nuffing town center on an evilly cold
Thursday
morning is even less fun, knowing that I’m supposed to go to work today. And going for a walk through Nuffing town center on an evilly cold March morning, on a Thursday, with a plastic bag of pissy underpants and an even pissier best friend, looking for “a famous junkie wearing my old pajamas and your shoes” as Mac puts it, is just about the worst thing I can imagine.
Mac is ignoring me again as Alfie leads the way, and it’s not just because he’s tired. Even when Mac’s tired he’ll manage a song or at the very least a hum as we walk along. But not now. I wish he would smile, just for a second, for any reason at all. I hate seeing him cross or sad or serious in any way. It just isn’t his nature. And he has the best smile. Even when I’m at my most horrible, he can cheer me up with his smile.
“I’ll take Alfie for a bit,” I offer, gesturing for Mac to hand me the dog leash as we lope down the hill.
“No, ’sfine,” he says, marching on. “You won’t be able to hold him.” He does look as though he is straining to hold on, which is good because it means Alfie has Jackson’s scent, but up until now he has only led us up one blind alley after another. First he takes us up the hill past the Torrance Lodge and down toward the railway station. Perhaps Jackson got on a train back to Cardiff? I put this to Mac.
“How the bloody hell would he have done that?” he laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. It’s one of his “Jody, you’re thick” laughs.
The cold wind claws my face like a winter wolf. “It’s possible, though.”
“No it’s not, Jody.”
“Oh. You think he wouldn’t understand the train timetables? I don’t understand train timetables, either. Maybe you’re right.”
Mac sighs. “Not because he wouldn’t understand the . . . because he’s got no money, he’s wearing pajamas, and he probably has no idea where he is, let alone where he needs to go.”
“That’s what I mean. Timetables.”
Back up the hill again we go, past the Torrance, down toward the flank of shut-up shops waiting for nine o’clock — Nuffing is a market town, but between the seventeenth-century yarn market and houses signed The Old Forge and The Dovecote , they’ve still managed to crowbar in the odd New Look clothing boutique and Boots drugstore. Nuffing’s just somewhere nice to drive through on the way to the Glastonbury Festival, really, there’s no real reason to stop unless you live here. Alfie lingers in a doorway to smell a furry hood that’s fallen off someone’s coat, but it comes to nothing. We’ve been walking for an hour. I’m fed up, groggy, filthy, tired, and terrified all in one sullen lump. We give Alfie another whiff of underpants and
schoom
! Off he goes again, back
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