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FIFTY-TWO
I turned the light off, watched the car parked across the street. A dark blue saloon with a rusty fender. Two men inside, both watching our flat. Same way they had been for the last ten minutes.
‘Trust your instincts,’ Matty used to say. ‘If you think something’s wrong, it probably is. Don’t wait till it’s too late to do something about it.’
‘Mum!’ I called.
She’d gone to her room for ‘a lie down’.
‘Mum, come here. There are men watching the flat.’
Her door opened, she shuffled out wearing a pink robe and slippers. Her eyes were red from crying, her hair a tangled mess.
‘What do you mean, watching the flat?’
I pointed.
‘Over there.’
We watched as the men got out of the car and crossed the road. Thirty seconds later, our intercom buzzed.
She shot me a wide-eyed look.
‘I’d better get dressed.’
It buzzed again. I picked up the entry phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Brennan?’
I didn’t correct him.
‘Who is this?’
‘Detective Sergeants Duckworth and Jones from Scotland Yard. May we come in?’
Scotland Yard? My flesh tightened, the air solidifying in my lungs.
‘Do you have ID?’ I asked, Matty’s training kicking in.
‘Of course.’
I wanted to tell them to go away, so I could run and hide under my bed. For Matty to tell me this was just a bad dream, and that he’d stay with me till I fell back asleep.
Instead, I told them to come up, we were on the second floor.
When the doorbell rang, I looked through the spyhole, asked to see their badges. They held up their warrant cards. I thought of Matty putting ADT stickers up on our windows to trick the bad guys into thinking we had an alarm. Of him telling me real crooks don’t have horns like Disney villains.
‘How do I know those are genuine?’ I asked.
The men didn’t look like police officers. They looked like my maths teacher.
The taller of the two, Duckworth I later learned, suggested I phone Scotland Yard, give their names and shoulder numbers.
My mother emerged from the bedroom in jeans and a sweater that looked like they’d been pulled out of the laundry basket. Her feet were bare. Her sleeves too long. It made her seem vulnerable somehow, like a child. Same as the day we came to London.
‘It’s okay,’ she told me. ‘Let them in.’
