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THIRTY-ONE
‘Where are those men taking Des?’
My mother was at the sink rinsing the breakfast plates.
‘What men?’
‘Out there. Look.’
She came to join me at the window where I was watching a bizarre scene unfold on the street below.
‘They’re putting him in that Honda.’
There were two men in suits, one with his hand resting on the door frame of an open passenger door, the other pushing Des inside by the head.
‘He’ll want to wash his hands,’ I muttered.
‘There’s no need to be unkind, Sophie.’ Then more thoughtfully, ‘What is going on?’ She tilted her head, tapped her forefinger against her lips. ‘Something’s off. Maybe we should call the police.’
It didn’t occur to either of us that they were the police.
I opened the window. Every night my mother triple checked they were unlocked before going to bed, the fire branded on both our brains.
‘What are you doing? It’s freezing.’
‘Shh, I’m trying to listen.’
‘Always eavesdropping,’ she tutted.
She didn’t argue though.
‘What about Bailey?’ we heard Des ask, his not so dulcet tones rising up from the pavement.
‘Who’s Bailey?’ one of the suits replied.
‘My dog.’
He pronounced it, ‘ma dorg’, his Scottish accent thicker than the disgusting blood sausage he’d gifted us at Christmas.
‘He’ll be okay,’ the other man assured him.
I glanced at my mother.
‘Should we offer to look after Bailey while he’s gone? It’s the right thing to do. Neighbourly,’ I added for good measure, throwing her own expressions back at her.
‘It sounds like those men are going to take care of him.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘There’s nothing to suggest they won’t, and how do you think Des would react if he thought we’d been spying on him?’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. Go brush your teeth. You’re going to be late for school.’
Sometimes it’s easier to get your own way by letting the other person think they’ve got theirs.
I grabbed my satchel and, when her back was turned, pinched a few slices of ham from the fridge, which I posted through Des’ letter box on my way out.
