‘I was a chef,’ said Nick, realising with a start that he had used the past tense, but Coleman seemed oblivious, his attention on the documents.
‘Oh really? Shouldn’t be too hard to find work then, we’ll sort out your certificates and some references,’ said Coleman, and then, ‘Here we are.’ He presented the printout to Nick Lucas. ‘Mr Bernard Fielding, this is your life. Or should I say, this is your new life.’
Nick took one look at the sheet of paper and felt sick.
In a little village, deep in the heart of rural Norfolk, Maggie Morgan slammed her ageing Golf into reverse and teased the car back up along the narrow lane that led to her cottage. It complained bitterly. Overhanging branches scratched the already scarred paintwork.
‘Sit down, Joe, I can’t see.’
‘You heard what Mum said,’ added Ben, dragging his little brother down into the footwell. Joe shrieked.
‘Oh for God’s sake, will you two stop it. I haven’t got the energy for this. Now both of you shut up and sit down.’ Her headache was making her even more ratty.
‘But he started it,’ whined Ben, as the car crunched over the weed-fringed gravel.
‘I don’t care who started it – just be quiet.’ She glared at them crossly in the rear-view mirror. ‘Ben, can you nip round and open the boot and help get the cases out, please? I’ll go and open up. Joe, don’t just sit there, honey. You can go and tell Mrs Eliot that we’re home safe and sound and see if she got the milk in.’
As the boys clambered out of the car Maggie eased herself out of the driving seat. It felt so nice to be home. She was so tired that her body ached right through to her bones. She stretched and looked around. The little pantiled cottage basked like a big ginger cat in the summer sunshine; the climbing rose over the door weighed heavy with scented creamy-pink flowers. It looked wonderful, so why was her fickle mind so eager to point out that the lawn desperately needed cutting and the bay hedge ought to be trimmed back?
Maggie grimaced. This was what the summer holidays were for. No marking or lesson planning for a few weeks; just the kids and the house. The hedge and the lawn and all the other jobs on the list would get done another day in some glorious unspecified mañana. Once she’d got the mower fixed and found the hedge trimmer, obviously. Maggie sighed. There were days when doing it all alone seemed like a cruel joke. In quiet moments on holiday Maggie had yearned for a change. She pined for a little excitement.
She groaned and headed inside. The drive back up from Somerset had taken forever and, roses or no roses, excitement or no excitement, if she didn’t have a decent cup of tea and a pee soon she might just die.
Joe, who had just turned six, trotted round from the next door neighbour’s carrying two pints of milk in his arms. He grinned, as behind him their elderly neighbour followed.
‘Nice to see you’re home, Maggie. Nothing very much has happened while you’ve been away. Did you have a good holiday? Joe looks like he caught the sun – look at his hair, all bleached blond at the front.’ The old lady ruffled it affectionately.
Maggie smiled, taking the milk from Joe. ‘It was wonderful, exactly what we needed; lots of sun, sea, and sleep. Everything been all right here?’
Mrs Eliot nodded. ‘Oh yes, fine. No problems at all. Oh, and the gasman turned up to mend your boiler at long last. I gave him the keys like you said.’
Maggie smiled. ‘And not before time. Great, look, I’m just going to get in and get things sorted out. I’ll pop round later and tell you all about the holiday.’ She nodded towards the boys. ‘The kids have bought you a little present.’
The elderly woman smiled. ‘How lovely. I got their postcard, it was nice of them to think of me. I’ve put it on the mantelpiece; pride of place. You’ll have to come and have a look, boys.’
Ben, with a red face, hefted one of the suitcases up onto the front step.
‘Why did you have to tell her that?’ he hissed as Mrs Eliot made her way back inside. ‘You bought her that vase.’ At nine he was beginning to see himself as the man of the house.
‘Shush. Here, let me have that. You go and help Joe with the black bags; and be careful, they’ve got all the blankets from the beach hut in them – they’ll be heavy,’ she called as Ben headed back down the path. Maggie slipped the key into the lock and pushed open the door with her foot.
Inside the hallway it was still and cool. Maggie let out a sigh of relief. She always enjoyed the first few seconds when she arrived home, when the house seemed slightly unfamiliar and she could view it with new eyes; except that this time the sensation lingered a second or two longer than usual. There was something wrong, something out of kilter that Maggie couldn’t quite put her finger on. The two boys, bearing black bags, pushed in behind her and dropped them on the flagstone floor.
Ben picked up the milk. ‘Is it all right if I have some cereal, I’m starving.’
‘Of course, love, there should be some in the cupboard. Can you put the kettle on while you’re in the kitchen?’
Joe bolted upstairs to add his new holiday dinosaur to the collection on his bedroom windowsill. Still the strange feeling remained. Maggie shook her head. It was probably just that she was exhausted; the traffic on the way home had been terrible.
Ben came out of the kitchen as she piled the rest of the bags up in the hall.
‘Mum,’ he said accusingly, holding out a box towards her. ‘Somebody’s been eating my cereal.’
A split second later Joe glared at her over the banister. ‘And somebody’s been sleeping in my bed,’ he said before vanishing.
Maggie laughed and threw her handbag onto the hall stand.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, clutching her chest theatrically. ‘Don’t tell me. We’ve accidentally wandered into a police reconstruction of Goldilocks and the Three Bears.’
As she spoke, the door to the study opened very, very slowly and a tall, rangy man wrapped in a bath towel stepped, dripping, into the hall.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he said, clutching the skimpy towel tight around his belly.
Maggie blinked, once, twice, strangling the scream that threatened. ‘I’m sorry?’ she mumbled. Her first thoughts were muddled; this couldn’t be happening. Next come shock, then fear, then surprise; a startled, bright, primary palette of emotions.
‘What are you doing in my house?’ he barked furiously.
Maggie settled on outrage, an unfamiliar scarlet glow, and looked round for something to defend herself and the boys with. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, everything sharp and clear and crisp.
Across the hall the man’s face contorted, and his body, already wound tight, hunched as if he meant to spring. ‘I said –’ he began.
‘I heard what you said,’ Maggie snapped, easing herself towards the hall stand. Her heart began to tango under her tee shirt. She could hear the reverberation in her ears as if reassuring her she was still alive and well. But for how long? She was acutely aware that Ben’s baseball bat stood amongst the umbrellas no more than an arm’s length away.
‘Well?’ demanded the man, the colour rising on his face and chest.
Maggie nodded towards her eldest son. ‘Quickly, love, go into the kitchen and phone the police,’ she called, and, as the man turned to watch Ben scurry away, she lunged forward. Grabbing the bat, she hefted it up to shoulder height.
The man took a step back, lifting one hand to ward her off, as Maggie settled into a batter’s stance.
‘For God’s sake,’ he yelped, as she took a practise swing in his