‘Of June? You got the right month?’
He felt the prickle of irritation on the back of his neck that he always got that when Gabi started to undermine him. He imagined her, snip, snip, snip at his testicles with the big garden shears. ‘Yes, I got the right fucking month. It says in capital letters, ‘Josh – psychiatric evaluation. 18th of June’. It was all he could do not to shout June down the phone.
‘Did you pay the credit card bill?’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Not enough money in the account. Not after the deposit on the car and the first repayment coming out.’
The argument quickly escalated into a slanging match over whether they were going to be cut off by the utilities company or not. As usual. By the time he slammed the phone down on his wife, Piet was exhausted.
He finished mopping the coffee spillage. The drawing was brown and rippled now, like the waves of the North Sea in winter. Damn.
Throwing the soggy tissue into his wastepaper basket, he peered out of the window. Sod Gabi. He would sit outside for a bit with the kids. If he invoiced a few more customers early, chances are, one would pay up before the thirty-day notice and he could settle the overdue gas bill.
Padding down in bare feet to the kitchen – a sleek luxury he had insisted upon if she was to have that ridiculous car they didn’t even need – he sliced up the cake. Piet poured milk into two plastic beakers. One green for Lucy. One yellow for Josh. An orange one for him, so he could join in. Took a tray outside.
The rustle of a late spring breeze in the trees was nothing short of idyllic. A train approached in the distance, although he hardly noticed the sound now, as the Rotterdam to Schiphol service trundled past some several metres below the line of houses – out of view, deep in its purpose-built cutting.
‘Come on, babies. Let’s take some time out.’
Silence.
Had they answered and he hadn’t heard them over the train’s rumble? Setting the tray down, he looked at the climbing frame, expecting to see his children. They weren’t there. Hide and seek, no doubt. Always a favourite. His heart had started to pound. He could feel the blood draining from his face. But that was fine, because they were hiding.
‘Josh! Lucy! Come on out now. Time for a snack.’
No sign of them in the void of the climbing frame. Neither could he see small figures skulking behind the wooden sun-loungers.
‘Not funny, kids! Come out!’
Peering at the bases of the holly bushes, he could see no telltale feet. Crap. The gate! He ran to check the side gate. Had they walked onto the street? No! The side gate was bolted and padlocked.
‘I know where you are, you little rascals!’
It was a simple but mature garden, mainly full of evergreen shrubbery and trees. Holly, laurel, a eucalyptus, cotoneaster, the heavy canopy of three Japanese maples, specimen pine, other stuff he didn’t know the names of. All surrounded by a solid, six-foot-tall wooden fence. They were hiding. He had to calm down. It simply wasn’t possible for them to have disappeared. Only one place could successfully conceal them.
At the far end of the garden was a small weeping birch that cascaded right to the ground, providing the kids with a curtain of green, behind which they could safely hide from view.
Smiling tentatively, Piet crept forward. Preparing to sweep the whippy branches aside to reveal his collaborating toddlers. Grabbed the branches. Hope fading as he realised he could not hear any delighted, anticipatory giggling. Looked for the sandaled feet, mucky knees and brightly coloured shorts in vain. Lifted the canopy suddenly.
‘Gotcha!’
The void by the tree trunk was empty.
In a dizzying vortex of panic, Piet stepped backwards. Tripped on Lucy’s Sesamstraat tricycle, Big Bird staring goggle-eyed into the abyss as he was now.
‘Josh! Lucy!’ he shouted at the top of his voice.
Hands shaking. His breath started to come short. Where was his inhaler? Inside. Maybe they had gone inside.
‘Lucy! Josh! Where are you?’
Found his Ventolin on the worktop. Inhaled sharply. Eyes scanning the kitchen. Back into the garden now. Screaming at the top of his lungs. Frightened tears starting to leak from his eyes.
‘Joshua! Lucy! Where are you?’
He fell to his knees as the bottom dropped out of his world. The garden was empty. His children were gone.
St. John’s College, then, The Bun Shop pub, Cambridge, 3 March, present
‘Fucking idiots,’ George muttered under her breath. She was eyeing the beefy rugger-buggers in the crowded college bar who had hoisted two blow-up sex dolls aloft and were bashing them together, ‘like lesboes’. Then, pretending to hump them, doggy style. Pints all round, boys, to celebrate Rupes’ birthday. Empty glasses bearing testament to two hours’ solid drinking.
Looking at Charlotte, the mousy third-year student she was supervising on the side, George felt suddenly protective. ‘Let’s call it a night, shall we?’
Charlotte fingered a twee enamel flower brooch on her jumper nervously. Nodded. She hooked her dark blonde hair behind her ears. Left her diet coke half drunk. ‘I always find it too rowdy in here,’ she said, barely audible above the raucous laughter and bawdy jokes. ‘But thanks for the drink anyway. I’m glad you thought the essay was okay.’
‘The essay was great, but this was a bad idea. I’m sorry. Next time, we’ll have the supervision at my house, right?’
As she pulled on her coat, one of the boys locked eyes with George. Clearly failed to recognize her as a Fellow. He humped the blow-up sex doll towards her, shouting, ‘Fancy a ride, darling? I’ve got plenty of love to give when I’ve finished with this bitch.’
Deftly, George detached the enamel brooch from Charlotte’s jumper. Nice long, sharp pin, she noticed with satisfaction. Took long strides to meet the leering idiot. Popped the first sex doll. Swung to her left and popped the second.
‘Oh, you total cow!’ one of the boys shouted.
‘See, boys?’ George said. All eyes on her. Stunned silence meant she had their attention. ‘An unwanted prick’s not much fun, is it?’
Before the pack could round on her, she ushered Charlotte to the door. She only barely registered the fact that a man, too old to be a student, was sitting in an alcove. A man who didn’t fit with these surrounds. The wafting stench of more than stale alcohol. Watching her. Someone she didn’t recognise. Or did she? It was a shadow of a thought and George didn’t have time to form it fully before she was through the door; warm air supplanted by cold, a testosterone-fuelled demi-riot supplanted by silence.
Outside in that frozen cloudless night, the drop in temperature punched the air from her lungs. She struggled to catch her breath as she watched Charlotte scurry off towards Cripps block in safety.
George was preoccupied and unprepared, when a figure wearing too many clothes bundled into her.
‘Watch where you’re going!’ she said, wondering if one of the boys from the bar had come to start something with her. But the figure was too small, she realised.
‘George!’ A woman’s voice. Rich rolling R. She pulled back her hood enough to show her face clearly