(I’m going to take a break from “Kelpie and Silkie” for a few months, while I decide what to do with it. Tune in next week for the return of the Warbeck sisters.)

*

(A letter delivered to 14 St. Crispian’s Drive, September 2006)

Dear Mr Green, Miss Clements, Miss Pepper and Miss Gharib,

Pardon the intrusion, but I have an offer that I think will interest you.

My name is Joshua Dunn, and I represent Safety First Lettings, an organisation dedicated to the promotion of student safety within our properties.  We believe that what happened to you this spring could have been avoided if Berrylands University had taken adequate safety precautions on its campus and in the student housing it offers.  For too long, the university has been letting in areas where just anybody can gather.  You saw for yourselves how disastrous the results of that can be.

The promise of Safety First is exactly that- the safety of our tenants is our top priority.  In addition to reinforced doors and panic buttons within each room, the streets and buildings in which we let are protected by a hired security team.  We would be delighted to take you on a tour of some of our properties and show you that a different way of living is possible.

I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours,

Joshua Dunn

Safety First Lettings (a division of Dalrymple Property Co)

*

(A poster in the Student Union, October 2006)

This is ROSALYN PEPPER.

On the 8^th of April this year, she saw her flatmate being attacked by a madman with a hammer.  Instead of freezing or running away, she calmly walked up to him and tapped the attacker on the shoulder, drawing his attention away.  The man broke Rosalyn’s collarbone, but she saved her flatmate’s life.

Forget shallow pop stars and spoiled celebrities.  THIS is the sort of person you should be looking up to.

*

(From the ‘Berrylands After Dark’ forum, November 2006)

MRowlands:

How much do you want to bet that one of those girls was having an affair with one of the Oakmen guys, and doesn’t want it to come out?  Every time I see their pictures, I think, “Yeah, you’ve got something to hide.”

JButter:

My bet would be Clements.  Notice how she was conveniently absent from the scene…

*

(A letter sent to 14 St Crispian’s Drive, December 2006)

Dear Ms Gharib and Ms Pepper,

I am writing to express my concern about your statements about Bradley Simmons and Gregory Melham.  While I can understand your distress about what happened to you on the 2^nd of April, the fact remains that these are two individuals who are clearly in need of psychological help.  To make matters worse, there is some evidence that they may have been unfairly scapegoated because of their unconventional lifestyle.  I hope you can see why, in a situation like this, comments like the ones you made are not helpful.

If you would like to discuss this matter further, my contact details are written below.  I would be happy to meet you in the Student Union or elsewhere to explain the situation further.  I believe that everyone is capable of learning and doing better- you have the opportunity to prove this to yourselves.

Yours faithfully,

Dean Hazell

*

(Graffiti in the men’s toilets near the Rubens building at Berrylands University, January 2007)

Never forget that Mariam Gharib blew up a microwave just to take out an annoying co-worker!!!

“He’s done terrible things,” said the old lady on the phone.

Saffron was just standing in the middle of the living room, but she felt as if she was on a rolling ship, shaking her about and making her seasick.  “Who are you?”

“Listen to me, Saffron.  Years ago, he stole a girl from her parents.  I don’t know why he did it, but he hid her away and laughed in their faces.”

Saffron fell back onto the sofa.  No wonder he didn’t want to tell me about Amber before.  She looked up at the ceiling and tried to stop feeling like she was going to throw up.

“When her father died, he wouldn’t even let her go to the funeral,” the old lady continued, “That is the kind of man he is.”

Last year, Saffron’s teacher had read The Horse and His Boy to the class, and Saffron remembered the bit near the start where the boy had overheard his dad saying that he wasn’t his real father and he was going to try and sell him as a slave.  It had said in the book that the boy didn’t mind because he’d never really loved his dad properly anyway, but Saffron didn’t see how he wasn’t upset.  He was his dad.   He’d seen him every day of his life.  Even if he hadn’t been nice to him, he’d been what the boy was used to.  Wouldn’t you feel as if you’d been shaken up and put down in the middle of nowhere?  Wouldn’t you feel like you couldn’t really believe anything you’d ever been told in your life?

Uncle Christian had said, It’s Amber’s story- I can’t tell to you behind her back.  I’ll tell it when she asks, and not a moment sooner.  And even if it hadn’t been his real reason, even if she couldn’t believe anything else he’d ever said, Saffron still didn’t want to hear it behind her sister’s back.  “Should I get Amber?” she asked, her voice sounding a bit croaky.

“Excuse me?”

“Should I get Amber?  Do you want to tell this with her listening?”

“Who on earth is Amber?”

“My sister.”  Saffron frowned.  “I thought that was who you were talking about.”

“Of course I wasn’t talking about your sister!” said the old lady, in the kind of voice that made you feel stupid… but Saffron didn’t think she had any reason to feel stupid, because if the old lady wasn’t talking about Amber, then who could she be talking about?  The only other little girl Uncle Christian lived with was her, and Saffron was pretty sure she’d remember if she’d been kidnapped.

And there was something else, too.  “Wait a minute- who are you?  You never said.”  Saffron knew she should have got the answer to that a lot earlier, instead of instantly believing strange voices on the phone over people she’d known her entire life, but at least she could get it now.

There was a heavy sigh.  “The important thing is, Saffron, that right now, you have two choices.”  (She still hasn’t answered it! thought Saffron, but decided not to say anything.)  “There’s no way out for your mother and Mr Ashley.  The police will soon be at their door.  You can either wait at home and be dragged away with them, or you can get out while you still can.”  She paused.  Horrible images danced through Saffron’s head.  “If you start walking now, you can be ten miles away by nightfall.”

“They don’t arrest kids just because their mothers are in trouble,” mumbled Saffron.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” said the old lady, with such force that Saffron wanted to hold the phone away from her ear in case it happened again, “Are you really that naïve?  They’ve probably already tricked you into being part of everything they’ve done.  That will be enough for the police.  Tarred by the same brush, they’ll say.”

Saffron pictured herself and her family at the police station, being screamed at by officers as they waved spotlights and handcuffs at them.  Could Mum and Uncle Christian really have tricked her into being part of something bad?  When?  And had there been any way she could have avoided it?

“Leave the house now,” said the old lady, “Get as far away as you can.  This is your only chance to escape.”

Saffron saw herself sneaking out of the house, walking to the end of the road, and then getting herself lost on purpose.  Walking until her feet bled, and then sleeping under a bridge.  It was her only way out.  The only way to avoid the police station and the spotlights and the handcuffs.

She’s lying.  Sometimes people say things just to upset you.

But what if she wasn’t?  What if the police really were on their way?  Maybe there was a girl who’d been kidnapped, somebody Saffron had never met.  Maybe Mum and Uncle Christian really had done horrible things when Saffron and Amber weren’t around.

But that didn’t mean that she had to run off and leave them behind.  Even if there were horrible things on the way, she’d feel a lot better about facing them if she was with her family.

Saffron cleared her throat.  “Anyway, like I said, my mum’s not in right now.  You should try again later.”  And she hung up quickly, before the old lady could say anything else. “Get out of the house,” Tamsin had said, and Octavia did, because she might have taken back the knife and the mug of poison but she’d also kept Octavia’s phone so she couldn’t call the police.   Octavia ran through the streets, searching for a passer-by who might help her call an ambulance, imagining that she could feel her stomach corroding and dissolving away with every moment.  But even as she thought that, she felt a strange sense of triumph:  She’d talked her way out.  She knew it had been a fluke more than anything else- her philosophy of “no-one really knows what they’re doing” applied to herself as much as anyone else- but the euphoria was still there.  All that horrible stuff had happened, but she was still here.  And she’d still be here the next time, and the one after that.

The End

Octavia was timing it as well as she could.  One five-second sip, and then a question.  Playing for time, hoping the sips she’d taken so far hadn’t poisoned her already.  The knife was still there, cool against her throat.  She took a sip (one, two, three, four, five) and asked, “Why are you doing this?”

Tamsin let out a dry splutter of a laugh.  “Are you joking?”

Another sip- one, two, three, four, five.  “Well, it can’t just be because Russel didn’t want to ask Martin about hiring a musician for the ceremony.”

Tamsin leaned forward, the knife shaking unnervingly as she moved, and whispered in Octavia’s ear.  “Are you actually fucking him, or do you just really want to?”

“What?!”  Octavia was so taken aback that she forgot to sip this time.

Luckily, Tamsin didn’t seem to notice.  She just rolled her eyes and put on a sardonic sing-song voice.  “Resurrecting his TV career…  Miss executive producer…”

Octavia wondered if it was worth it to try and tell the truth.  She might not believe it.  It might just make her angrier.  But she was quickly working her way up to murderous anyway. And honestly, what else did Octavia even have?

Sip- one, two, three, four, five.  “Nothing like that.”  Sip- one, two, three, four, five.  “He’s blackmailing me.”

The knife left her neck.  Tamsin had only moved it back an inch or two, but it was an improvement.  “What?”

Sip- one, two, three, four, five.  “He found out that I’d screwed over a businessman I worked with.”  One, two, three, four, five.  “George Chandler from LeFay Jewellers, if you really want to know.”

“Never heard of him,” said Tamsin.

“Really?”  One, two, three, four, five.  “He’ll be disappointed.”  One, two, three, four, five.

“How was he blackmailing you?”  Tamsin was still holding the knife up, but Octavia thought she might have relaxed her hand a bit.  Of course, she could just have been giving herself enough space to have a run-up if she decided to stab her.

One, two, three, four, five.  “He said he’d tell George Chandler where my children live.”

“You never said you had children.”

“I know.”  One, two, three, four, five.  “That’s because I don’t want people like George Chandler finding out about them.”  One, two, three, four, five.  “Or people like my mother.”

Tamsin’s frown deepened, and Octavia worried that she was about to ask why it had been kept from her, and was Octavia trying to call her a snitch?  “So how did Russel find out?”

One, two, three, four, five.  Here it was.  If anything she said caused Tamsin to lose it and plunge the knife right in, it was this.  “He followed me.”  One, two, three, four, five.  “He got photographs of me at my daughter’s tenth birthday.”

One, two, three, four, five.  The knife hadn’t moved yet.  Of course, depending on what Tamsin had put in the tea, she might be as good as dead already.  At least that way George Chandler wouldn’t have any reason to go after Amber and Saffron.

“And why should I believe you?” asked Tamsin.

One, two, three, four, five.  “No idea.”  One, two, three, four, five.  “But it’s true.”  And there it was.  That was all she had.

(To be concluded)

The phone rang while Uncle Christian was in the garden, and at first, Saffron was just going to let it ring. She knew what to say on the phone- Mum had taught her- but that didn’t mean she liked doing it. You picked it up and got some strange adult’s voice on the other end, asking you questions you didn’t know the answer to. But the phone carried on ringing and Saffron started to wonder if it was someone with an emergency. Maybe even Mum, calling from London. Somebody she’d feel bad ignoring, anyway. Saffron picked up the phone. “Hello?”

“Octavia Lambton,” said the voice on the other end.

“What? I’m not…”

“I want to speak to Octavia Lambton.” It was a scratchy old-lady voice, and Saffron didn’t think she’d ever heard it before. “Now, please.”

Saffron finally came up with an answer. “Um, she’s not at home.”

There was a huff on the other end. “Who am I speaking to?”

“Saffron.” She shifted the phone from one hand to the other. “I’m her daughter.”

“Saffron.” She said it in the same way teachers said the names of kids they wanted to send to the headteacher , and even though they weren’t even in the same room, Saffron felt like trying to hide behind something. “Do you know a man called Christian Ashley?”

“Yes! Do you want to talk to him instead?” Uncle Christian could deal with her, no problem. Whatever she wanted, she could tell it to him instead of Saffron.

“Certainly not!” snapped the old lady, “I’m calling to warn you about him!”

And Saffron couldn’t reply to that, because she was too busy thinking about that sentence again and again in the hope that it would eventually make sense.

(To be continued)

They were back in the Doggetts’ sticky, cramped living room. Octavia had looked around at a couple of the boxes and piles of clutter, but found nothing but old toys and used food packaging. Maybe they were planning to recycle all of it eventually.

“It’s going to be a smash hit,” said Russel, “You’ll see. People have been waiting for a return to the simpler things. Not everything has to be post-modern and clever-clever.”

Tamsin gave him a tight smile. “Drink your tea.”

Russel obeyed. “A smash hit.” He grinned. “And you won’t be forgotten in all this, Octavia. Executive producer- how does that sound?”

“If you like,” said Octavia. She’d noticed that Russel was slurring his words a bit. She didn’t think she’d seen him drinking anything, but maybe he’d asked for a shot of vodka in his tea.

He raised his mug, as if in a toast. “Couldn’t have done it without you. And we’ll forget about old what’s-his-name, right?” He winked at her.

“If you like,” she repeated. She’d have expected Tamsin to pick up on what Russel had just said, but she hadn’t acknowledged it at all. Just carried on staring at him.

Russel elbowed Tamsin. “We’ll be moving somewhere better than this dump soon, eh, Tam? You might get to make friends with Girls Aloud after all, eh?”

“Mm.” There was something strange about her face. Something tight and tense.

“We can send Avery off to one of those big private schools.” (Avery was currently at his grandmother’s- Octavia still hadn’t met him. Sometimes she thought that Russel and Tamsin didn’t actually have a baby at all, just a recording of one crying that they played every time one of them wanted to leave the other alone with guests.) “We can… We can buy a property on the Costa Brava…” He was definitely stumbling over his words. “Somewhere on…” He trailed off. His eyelids were beginning to droop.

Tamsin watched him for a few seconds, as if to check he wasn’t going to continue his train of thought. Then she turned to Octavia. “You’re not drinking your tea.”

Out of nowhere, Octavia remembered something Tamsin had said a couple of weeks agio. I’d started to play games and cause trouble in our relationship. Maybe she should have asked Tamsin what exactly she’d meant by that. “Hm? Oh, I’m just waiting for it to cool down a bit.”

Tamsin’s brow furrowed. “Drink. It.”

Octavia looked back at Russel, whose eyes were completely closed by now. Dead to the world. She looked Tamsin in the eye, and set her mug down on the table.

“Drink it,” said Tamsin, through gritted teeth, clicking her tongue with the ‘t’s, “If you want to leave this house alive, you drink it.”

“What did you put in it, Tamsin?”

“That’s not what you need to be worried about. Drink it!” Tamsin looked sharper, as if her nose, chin and cheekbones had all suddenly been filed to points that could take your hand off if you weren’t careful. And Russel had thought he could call her pathetic in public and then drink tea she’d made an hour later. He must have been mad.

Then again, what did that say about Octavia? She’d been about to drink the tea, too.

“Sounds a bit like something your husband told me last week,” she said, conversationally, “I’m not the one you need to worry about. He wasn’t talking about you, but maybe he should have been.” She smiled.

Octavia had hoped- stupidly- that a bit of flattery might help Tamsin calm down, but no such luck, because the next thing she knew Tamsin had taken a knife out of her pocket. It was a little, old-fashioned letter-opener with a delicate silver handle and pretty carvings around the edges, but that didn’t make the blade look an less dangerous. Especially not when Tamsin reached out and pressed the flat side against Octavia’s neck.

Tamsin took a little breath, like a schoolgirl preparing to give a presentation to the class, and sad, “If you drink your tea, I might call the ambulance in time for them to come and pump it out of your system. If you don’t, you get this in your throat, and I won’t.”

Octavia’s mind went to the same place it always did in situations like this. She’s bluffing. There’s no way she’s actually prepared to use that knife. But it wasn’t as much comfort as usual, because Tamsin didn’t need to be prepared. She could cause a fatal injury just as easily by accident as on purpose.

There was only one thing to do. Octavia lifted the mug to her lips and took her first sip.

(To be continued)

“What we’d be looking at is, something traditional,” Russel told Martin, “None of this sneering post-modern shit.  Back to basics.”

Martin nodded along with him, making encouraging, noncommittal noises.  It occurred to Octavia that she couldn’t have picked a better guy for Russel to pontificate at.  Martin Sloan was a chubby middle-aged man with an earthy Scottish accent, so Russel had quickly taken it as read that he was on his wavelength.  Of course, having worked in TV for twenty years, Martin was also an expert in feigning interest in people’s terrible ideas.  Octavia had promised him fifty per cent off his production company’s next event to humour Russel for an hour.  And hey, for all she knew, Martin might actually like what Russel had to sell.  Octavia couldn’t predict the future.

“We’d be looking at a basic quiz show format- a few saucy jokes, a couple of pretty girls jiggling up and down, you know?”  Russel winked at Martin.  He didn’t notice Tamsin, in the seat next to him, begin to scowl.  “The feminists might not like it, but how much telly do they watch, eh?”  He let out a barking smoker’s laugh.

Martin skated smoothly past this.  “And you’d be thinking of yourself for the presenter, right?”

“Mm.  Mm.  With maybe a couple of guests to introduce the different rounds.  Pop stars, comedians…”

Octavia, who didn’t have much to contribute to this meeting, began to brainstorm what she’d do in the next three or four weeks, which was probably how long it would take for Russel to figure out that Martin’s encouraging noises hadn’t actually constituted a legally binding contract.  She could find some damning evidence that would get George Chandler instantly thrown in jail where he could do no harm.  She could find a way to convince George Chandler not to believe anything Russel said.  She could find out some secret that Russel didn’t want revealed- neutralise blackmail with more blackmail.  The possibilities seemed endless, but she had to pick one fairly soon.

“That sounds promising…” said Martin, his eyes brimming with sincerity.

Russel opened his mouth to make some more suggestions, but before he could, Tamsin spoke up.  “What kind of pop stars do you think you’d be able to get?”

Russel did a bit of a jump- he’d probably more-or-less forgotten she was there.  “Tamsin…”

She looked back at him, and continued.  “Because I was thinking, for our vow renewal…”

“Tam…”

“Let’s not jump the gun on that, eh?” Martin cut in, “Look, I’ll talk to the people at Sky, see what we can do.  In the meantime, I’ve got…”

Russel shook his head.  “Not Sky.  I don’t like Sky. Let’s try one of the big guns.”

Martin glanced at Octavia, clearly getting the words Where did you even find this guy? across with his eyes.  “Well, we’ll see who’s biting, OK?  In the meantime, I’ve got your number.  I’ll keep you posted.”

Octavia checked her watch- she was pretty sure it hadn’t been a full hour.  Not that she blamed him.

*

As soon as they got outside the building, Russel started tearing into Tamsin.  “What the fuck do you think you were playing at?”

“What?” she replied, folding her arms like a sulky teenager.

“Asking him what pop stars he thought he could get!”

(Octavia was pretty sure that Russel was the one who’d mentioned pop stars first, but decided not to say anything.  She hadn’t had to so far.)

“I was just thinking, because of our…”

“You just don’t get it!  This is my fucking career we’re talking about, and you’re still thinking about getting Girls Aloud to perform at your party!”

Tamsin spluttered.  “My party?  It’s our…”

“You’re pathetic,” Russel spat, and walked off towards the taxi rank.

Tamsin stayed where she was, staring after him.  Octavia put a hand on her shoulder.  “I think he’s…”            

Tamsin shook her off.  “Just leave it, Octavia, OK?”  And she followed him down.

(To be continued)

It was two days later- after their mother had fled back to Horsham with a curse on her lips, after she and Jonathan had been to the police station and come back with some vague answers- that Russel Doggett came to Octavia’s flat.

The flat was in Southwark- somewhere central, close to Goldemar Events’ main office- and she’d filled it up with cheap Ikea furniture and not much else.  It was a functional place, and Octavia didn’t mind spending the night there.  Nights when Russel Doggett wasn’t around, anyway.

She wasn’t surprised when her buzzer went and she heard his voice on the other end of the intercom.  She’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I’ll come down to meet you,” she said, “I’m not letting you in.”  She hung up before he could argue, and went downstairs.

The hallway in her building was clean, warm and well-lit, but Octavia wondered if she’d have felt better right now if it wasn’t.  If some of the lights had been on the blink, he wouldn’t see her coming.  His face lit up when he saw her through the front door, but he didn’t see her take her phone out of her pocket as she opened it.  As soon as she had an unobscured shot of him, she raised it and pressed the camera button three times in succession.

Russel tensed, his hands up as if expecting a fight.  “What do you think you’re playing at?”

Keeping the phone angled away from Russel in case he tried to snatch it, Octavia pressed a few more buttons and sent the photos on to Mr Ashley.  “Well, our neighbours were very concerned when they heard there’d been a strange man following my children around.  This way, they’ll all know who to watch out for.”

Russel stayed tense, and Octavia wondered if he was going to try and lunge at her.  She’d been in physical fights before (you’d never guess how rough an expensive private school could get when the teachers weren’t looking), but probably not nearly as frequently as he had.  “It’s not me you have to worry about, you stupid bitch,” he told her, “George Chandler.  What if he found out where your children lived?”

Octavia’s first thought was, How did he even find out about George Chandler?, but she quickly dismissed it.  If he was obsessed enough to follow her to Torquay and stick around for most of the weekend, then he was obsessed enough to find out everything else that could be used against her, too.

George Chandler.  He was angry with her, she knew that, but did “angry enough to throw around idle threats of a lawsuit” mean “angry enough to pose a serious threat”?  Even if he was rich enough and unethical enough to hire people to do his dirty work, would he risk losing everything he had to go after a pair of children?  Could Octavia risk everything by assuming he wouldn’t?

Apparently Octavia’s poker face wasn’t as good as she thought, because an oily smile spread across Russel’s face and he nodded.  “So we understand each other.”  He nodded towards the door.  “I think you’ll be letting me into your flat now, right?”

Yes.  That way I can murder you without having to worry about witnesses.  “Nope.  Tell me what you want.”

“I want to come up to your flat.”  He took a step forward.

Octavia moved so that she was standing right across the doorway.  “Not happening.  Pick something else.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to insist, which would have meant that she really would have found out if she had it in her to invite him up and slit his throat with the paring knife. Instead, he relaxed in place, and chuckled.  “That’s your problem, isn’t it?  You always think you’re in charge.  Even when you’re in somebody else’s house.”

That’s definitely what this is about, thought Octavia, He doesn’t want anything specific- he just wants to bring me down a peg or two.  The trouble is, with someone like him, that could mean anything.

“You thought you were so clever, sneering at me when my back was turned.  Trying to turn my wife against me.  Did you really think I was too fucking stupid to see it?”

Give him something specific to want, thought Octavia.  “Do you mean the time you said you weren’t allowed on TV anymore because you weren’t a disabled lesbian?”

“Right.  And you said…”

“What if I could get you back on TV?”

Russel’s eyes lit up, and Octavia felt something loosen in her chest.

“What?” he spluttered.

“I’ve planned events for a few TV companies.  They remember me pretty fondly.”  Fondly enough to help her fob Russel off until she worked out how she could deal with him properly, she hoped.  “I’d just need to scratch a few backs.”

Russel’s jaw was practically hanging open.  “You really think you could do it?”

“To keep my children out of danger?” she asked sourly, “Yes.”  He was lucky he hadn’t carried on asking to come up to her flat, or he’d have found out what else she was prepared to do.

Russel grinned and rocked back on his heels.  “Well, well, well…”

It was probably best to cut this conversation short while she could.  “I’m going back up now.  I’ll make some calls.”  And she shut the door behind her.

(To be continued)

(Sorry this has taken so long- I’ve got a new job and it’s left me precious little time to muck about. Things should be a bit simpler after next week.)

*

Getting a phone call from Jonathan, asking her to meet him at his office as soon as possible, was more than enough to make Octavia concerned.  Jonathan refusing to go into any more detail than, “There’s something we need to talk about,” tipped that concern over into actual worry.  And when she opened the door to his office and saw their mother sitting opposite him, trying to murder her with her eyes, it took all the strength Octavia could muster not to turn around and get as far away from here as possible.

Every time Octavia saw her mother, she hoped that, this time, she’d have finally got too old and frail to intimidate her.  And every time, she was disappointed.

Jonathan didn’t notice any of this.  He just sat behind the desk, looking all concerned like he sometimes did.  “Octavia, do you know a man named Russel Doggett?”

Octavia’s stomach dropped.  She had no idea how her mother and brother had come to know who Russel Doggett was, but there was no chance of it being a good thing.  “Yyyes…  Why?”

“He made an appointment with me yesterday afternoon,” said their mother, spitting each word out as if it tasted disgusting, “He said he had information about my daughter.”

Octavia left a reasonably long pause before asking, “Which was?”

Jonathan cleared his throat.  “He had photos…  He’d clearly been following you without your permission, and we’re going to have to discuss what we should do about that, but there was also…”

“‘Without her permission’?” their mother snapped, “Do you really think that’s the issue here?  That she didn’t give permission?”  She’d got to that stage of anger where her lips drew back and bared her teeth, as if she was threatening to bite you.  When Octavia and Jonathan had been kids, that had had been a sure sign that something you loved was about to get broken.

“What kind of photos?” asked Octavia, because there were only a limited number of things he could have photographed her doing, and none of them were particularly interesting.  Because she’d have been in London when he took them.  Obviously she’d have been in London.  Why would he have bothered to follow her anywhere else?

Her mother twisted around and fixed her famous icicle-blue gaze on her.  “It was of a child’s tenth birthday party.  A child who looked an awful lot like you.”

Octavia felt as if she was choking, just on the air in this room.  She knew that the most horrifying part of this should have been the thought of Russel Doggett skulking around Amber’s party and spying on the children, right under her nose.  Later on, maybe even in a few seconds, she’d be exactly as horrified as something like that deserved.  But right now, it seemed to pale in comparison to the thought of Josette Lambton seeing a photo of her daughters.

“I’m only going to ask you once, Octavia.”  Her mother’s lower jaw trembled.  “Is the child yours?”

Was there any point in trying to lie?  Would it do anything to keep Amber and Saffron safe?  Probably not.

Octavia folded her arms.  She hadn’t got around to sitting down, even though there was a spare chair in front of the desk, and that meant she got to indulge in towering over the pair of them.  “She is, yes.  Her sister, too.”

“And you understand the humiliation I felt, having to admit to that man that I had no idea my grandchildren existed until he told me?”  Their mother’s voice gathered pitch and volume as it went on.  It wouldn’t be long before she’d completely turned into a banshee.

Couldn’t back down.  Couldn’t blink.  “I’ve gone to a lot of effort to make sure you didn’t find out”

That seemed to surprise her.  (Why?  Had she expected Octavia to just shrink back and stammer out an apology?  Who knew what that woman thought?)  “You have the mentality of a child,” she said eventually.  Her voice was quieter now- Octavia thought she heard it shaking.  “Nothing but adolescent spite.  How dare you do this to us?”

Us.  Octavia turned to look at Jonathan, who hadn’t said anything since their mother had started yelling.  He looked back at her with those sad brown bloodhound’s eyes, and said softly, “This whole time, I’ve had two nieces I didn’t know about?”

A lot of people would have led with that.  Not with concern about Russel Doggett following her around.  Octavia sighed.  “Yes.  I’m sorry.  I couldn’t have you telling her.”

“I wouldn’t have.  Not if you’d asked me not to.”

Maybe it was because of that calm, concerned expression, and maybe it was because there wasn’t a hint of defensiveness in his voice, but Octavia was pretty sure she believed him.  And she wasn’t prepared for how lousy that made her feel. 

It hadn’t been out of spite, her decision not to tell him.  More of a ‘what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him’ thing.  And now he did know, it probably had hurt him, and he’d still mentioned doing something about Russel Doggett first.  Of course he wouldn’t have told her.  How badly could you underestimate somebody you’d known all your life?

Their mother, naturally, was just annoyed at them for ganging up on her.  “Is this how people reason now?” she demanded, “No sense of duty to family whatsoever?  No sense of guilt?”  She waved her hands in the air.  “What kind of world do we live in?  What kind of family do we have?”

All things Octavia might have expected Jonathan to ask.  If he had, he’d have got a different answer.  “The same kind of family we’ve always had- the kind of family that kicks out its sixteen-year-old daughter for not lying to make you look good.”

“You ran away at sixteen.”  Her mother’s voice reminded Octavia of a dog barking.  One of those little annoying ones that thought they owned the place.

“No- I just decided that this time I wouldn’t come back and grovel as soon as you’d calmed down.”

“You pathetic woman.”  Josette Lambton rose to her feet.  “And to think, you’re bringing up those children to be just like you.”

“That’s enough,” said Jonathan, standing up so he could face her properly.

Josette Lambton looked from her son to her daughter and back again, giving them equal doses of what she probably hoped was a withering glare.  “Oh, it’s all very modern.  Very cutting-edge.  Post -family, post-morality…”  She turned the glare back onto Octavia.   “But as far as I’m concerned, they’re not my grandchildren.  Because as far as I’m concerned, you’re not my daughter.”

That stung, even though it shouldn’t have (hadn’t it basically been the case for the last two decades?).  But Octavia was an expert in faking nonchalance.  “OK.  Can I go now?”

Josette Lambton went crimson.

Jonathan cleared his throat.  “Mother, can I talk to Octavia in private for a moment?”

“I’m not finished,” said their mother, but she started backing towards the door anyway.  Octavia remembered how much she liked to make a memorable exit.  “I’m disgusted with the pair of you.”  She opened the door, stepped halfway through, and turned her head at the last moment to say, “I’m going to have to think very hard about what I do next.”

With that, she shut the door behind her.  Octavia had to bite her tongue not to laugh.  What I do next?  What was Octavia meant to imagine her doing?  Joining a Grandparents’ Rights group, and losing interest as soon as she realised it meant having to interact with working-class people?  Bitching about her in the Sunday papers again, and hoping somebody actually bothered to read it this time?  Sitting in her house thinking aggrieved thoughts at her as hard as she could?

To think she’d spent the last ten years deceiving her brother because of the old cow.

Jonathan tapped the chair in front of his desk.  “Please, sit down.”

Octavia sat down.  Whatever he had to say, she probably deserved it.

“I think it would be a good idea for us to talk to the police about Russel Doggett.  His kind of behaviour tends to escalate.  Best to nip it in the bud.”

This time, Octavia actually did laugh.  “That’s really your top priority, isn’t it?  Not the fact that I’ve been keeping two whole human beings secret from you for the last ten years.”

Jonathan frowned, but only a little.  “It… just seems like we should deal with him soonest.”   He glanced down at his desk, avoiding eye contact.  Octavia was just about to say something like, I don’t deserve a brother like you, when he added, “Besides, it’s not like I don’t see why you kept it secret.”

“I shouldn’t have.  I don’t know why I assumed you’d take her side.”

He looked back up at her.  “Octavia, look at me.  I get it.  You’re terrified of her.  Even if you were ninety-nine percent sure I wouldn’t tell her, that one percent was too big a risk to take with your own children.”

“I should have trusted you.”  Octavia was surprised at how quiet her own voice was.

“Well, maybe you would have if I hadn’t kept pressuring you to make up with her.  I should have known better.”  His eyes went all concerned-bloodhound again.  “But do you trust me now?”

“Of course,” said Octavia.  As if she’d have said ‘no’ at this point, even if she hadn’t.

He smiled back grimly.  “Then let’s talk about what we’re going to tell the police.”

(To be continued)

They went food shopping on Thursday nights, up to the big Tesco near the motorway.  Normally Mum and Uncle Christian let Amber and Saffron go to the toy section after they’d been down the first three or four aisles, but today they’d made them wait until Amber had chosen her birthday cake (she picked Bart Simpson.)

The toy section was a big collection of aisles just by the clothes, and the first thing you came to was a big wall of dolls, Barbies and Sindys and all the others.  Even though she’d probably looked at them a million times before, Amber took down the boxes, one by one, and read the little bits of writing on the back.  “These ones are supposed to be going to an international high school, right?” she said to Saffron, “But then you get three of them from America and four from everywhere else in the world.”

Saffron nodded.  She’d said the exact same thing last week.

Amber put the doll back, and moved on to the little plastic Sesame Street characters on the right.  “Do you think that sometimes Americans forget that anywhere else exists?”

“Maybe.  America is really big.”  Saffron pointed behind her.  “I’m going to look at the books, OK?”

“OK,” said Amber.  She was too busy mercilessly analysing the Cookie Monster to look up.

The bookshelf here was excellent.  Even if there wasn’t anything new this week, Saffron would be happy to flick through a couple of the ones she’d read before.  There was a poetry book about what teachers got up to behind your back, for instance, and a spooky one about an evil great-aunt who came to visit a family and plot their doom, and the youngest son was the only one who could stop her.  On her way there, though, Saffron passed the cuddly toys, and decided to have a look at them.  Really what she wanted to do was buy them all and take them home, but Mum and Uncle Christian would never let her buy eight whole toys on one shopping trip.  They couldn’t stop her picking them up one by one and hugging them, though.

The one nearest to Saffron was a giant Tigger- nearly half her height- and when she picked it up, she noticed something strange on the shelf beside it, hidden in its shadow.  It was a little pink plastic rectangle, and Saffron was pretty sure it wasn’t meant to be there.  Why would they put it somewhere you couldn’t even find it?  You’d never get anyone to buy it that way.

Saffron put the Tigger back and picked up the rectangle.  It looked a bit like a make-up kit, but Saffron wasn’t going to open it up to make sure in case it broke.  Was it one of the ones from the make-up aisle, or had it fallen out of someone’s handbag by mistake?

“Someone must have changed their mind about buying it,” said Amber, after Saffron went back to show her.

“But why’d they leave it with the cuddly toys?”

“‘Cause they were too lazy to take it back to where they’d got it.”

Saffron looked back down at the rectangle.  “I’m going to take it to the Customer Service desk.  They’ll know what to do.”  Saffron had only found out about the Customer Service desk last month, when Amber had left her coat by the bookshelves and they’d had to come back the next day to find it, but now she knew all about how it worked.

“Why not just take it back to the makeup section?  That’s where it goes.”

“It might not be from the makeup section here.  Someone might have lost it.”  Saffron wasn’t as worried about that as she was about getting to the makeup section, not being able to find the place it was supposed to go, putting it on a random shelf and having total strangers ask her what she was doing.  But she wasn’t going to tell Amber that in case she laughed.  “If Mum and Uncle Christian get here before I come back, can you tell them I’m at the Customer Service desk?”

“Fine,” said Amber, and went back to reading the Action Man box.

The Customer Service desk was right on the other side of Tesco, over by the entrance.  To get to it, Saffron had to find a till with no-one on it, duck under the chain with the ‘Out of Order’ sign stuck to it, and walk all the way along the front of the store, with her right hand pointing out awkwardly in front of her so everyone could see she had the makeup kit and she wasn’t trying to hide it or steal it or anything.  She walked past the café, with its lovely smell of baked beans and chips like a signal saying, It’s Thursday!  The weekend’s nearly here!  And it was around then that the man caught up with her.

She didn’t know where he’d come from.  One second there wasn’t a man walking beside her, and the next second there was.  “What have you got there, sweetheart?” he asked.

Saffron stopped in her tracks, her feet seeming to lock in place all on their own.  He’s a security guard, she thought, He thinks I’m stealing.

He didn’t actually look like a security guard.  He wasn’t wearing a uniform or anything- just an old grey sweatshirt and jeans.  He had wild grey hair and glasses, and he was smiling at her.  Sort of.  It was more like he was trying to smile, but he wasn’t very good at it.

Saffron took a deep breath.  “I found something in the toy section that’s not meant to be there, so I’m taking it to the Customer Service desk so they can work out who it belongs to.”

“Right,” said the man, stretching it out as if he thought that she was funny.  Or that she was lying.  “And what’s your name?  Are you here with your mummy?”

Those were exactly the kind of questions that a security guard probably asked you before arresting you.  “Yes.  And, um, I’m Saffron.”

“Saffron, right,” said the man, rocking back and forth on his heels, “And your mummy’s name, is it Octavia?”

“Yes…”  Saffron looked sideways.  A few people had moved out of the way, and a path had cleared to the front of the store.  “Um, I really need to go to the Customer Service desk,” she said, and walked away from him as quickly as she cold.  She didn’t run, because that would have made her look guilty, but maybe if she went fast enough he wouldn’t have time to work out what was going on and stop her.

It was only a minute later, after the Customer Services lady had nodded and smiled and taken the make-up kit off her hands, that Saffron really began to wonder who the man had been.  It was funny- she’d been told a million times not to talk to strangers, but she’d been so worried about him arresting her for shoplifting that she’d forgotten all about it.  Maybe the man had been a security guard.  But what if he wasn’t?  What else could he have been?

Saffron turned around and looked at the route in front of her, deciding that if the man was still there, she’d go and hide in the Ladies’ toilets until he’d gone.  But there was no sign of him, so off she went, walking as fast as she could, back to Amber.

*

She had it planned out- as soon as she answered the door, she’d fall to her knees and beg, telling him she’d do anything, work any job, just as long as he let her stay somewhere warm and bright for just a little while.

*

Anna’s birthday lunch (seven lots of burgers and fries, plus milkshakes and bits of cake) was finished.  Immediately after the last bite, the kids had disappeared into the playground equipment near the picnic tables, leaving the adults to clean up the mess and/or use their absence as an excuse to gossip about people they didn’t like.

“I told you she wouldn’t last long,” said Gemma Marsh, the mother of Saffron’s friend Bethany and also Octavia’s colleague at the drop-in centre fifteen hours a week, “Every time you asked her to do something, she took it as a personal insult.”  She picked up some of the food packaging and put it into a plastic nag.  “In the end, she threw a screaming fit in front of a group of patient, and stormed out.”

“Why do I always miss the good stuff, eh?” asked Octavia, picking up the remains of the Swiss roll.  She’d only had a couple of bites of it herself- it had smelled strange, sort of cheap and yeasty.  She hadn’t said anything, because whoever had brought it had been very generous to do so without being asked, but she had to wonder what was in it.

Her mother would definitely have said something.

Yes, Octavia, you’re a real paragon of virtue for not demanding to know who tainted your daughter’s party by bringing along such a low-class Swiss roll.  That’s a really high bar you’ve set for yourself.

“So she left this week, did she?” Mr Ashley asked Gemma.

“On Thursday, yeah.”  Gemma started filling up another bag to take to the bins over by the fence.

“So would I be right in assuming that this means there’s a paid position open at the drop-in centre?”

Octavia shot him a look that said, Don’t start.  Mr Ashley looked back innocently.

The table was clear.  They could start walking up to meet the children and see which ride they wanted to go on next (preferably a gentle one, for the sake of everyone’s stomachs).  As they went, Octavia went over a conversation in her mind, one that she and Mr Ashley had had a thousand times before.  Yes, alright, it’s a hassle travelling between London and Torquay.  Alright, I don’t even like London that much.  Alright, everyone I work for is a complete tosser.  But it brings in good money, OK?  At this rate, eight years from now, Amber and Saffron will have their pick of universities, and in the meantime, they won’t have to worry about…

There was a cry of pain.  It wasn’t Amber or Saffron, but it did sound familiar.  Octavia looked up and saw four of the girls they’d brought to Finch’s crowded around one of the rope swings, where it looked like the fifth girl was trapped.

“She wanted to see what would happen if she spun her hair around the rope at the same time as it was spinning the other way,” explained Amber, as the adults hurried towards them, “But then she got stuck.”  The girls’ friend Lily sat on the swing, deeply uncomfortable, with her head stuck to the rope by her long, blonde ponytail, which seemed to have actually merged with the rope in places.  This is why we keep Amber and Saffron’s hair shoulder-length, thought Octavia, before she could stop herself.

Gemma and Angie, one of the other mothers, tried turning Lily the other way and unwinding the hair like that, but it didn’t seem to work.  Gemma looked back at Octavia, cringing as if she had toothache.  “We might have to get the scissors out…”

Lily, overhearing this, looked horrified- she’d always been proud of her long hair.  She’s got nobody to blame but herself, said Octavia’s mother, in her head, Let this be a lesson.  Vain little creature.

“Wait, let me try,” said Octavia, stepping forward, “I’ve got long nails.  I might be able to do it.”  The other mothers moved out of the way, and Octavia bent down a little so that she could get a better look at the rope.

She picked at the hair, strand by strand, finding the ends and teasing them out.  Every so often, Lily made a whimpering noise when she pulled too hard, but otherwise she stayed quiet.  She was hoping this would work just as much as Octavia was.

After three or four minutes, Octavia’s fingertips were burning and raw from rubbing up against the rope for so long, but Lily’s hair was almost all out.  She pulled the last few strands away herself, leaving a strange golden sheen on the rope.  “I’m free!” she cried, punching the air as she jumped down.

Octavia straightened up, and beamed.  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this great.

*

From the moment Josette let the man into her house, he looked at it as if he owned it.  She couldn’t even call it covetousness- he was looking at it as though it was already within his grasp.  He was inspecting it as though it was a used car he wanted to buy.  Well, of course.  Like so many in this country, he thought he was entitled to come in and make himself at home.  There was no difference between himself and Josette, after all.  Why would there be?

He sat himself down on the sofa (Chesterfield in grey oak, if he only knew), and grinned at her.  “Cup of tea?” he asked.

Josette could have slapped his face.  Instead, she just walked over to the chair opposite and sat down.  “You said that you had information about my daughter.  What is it?”

If Mr Doggett expected payment, he was about to be very disappointed indeed.  Josette had as much information as she required about her daughter- no more, no less.  She knew about the “event-planning” business, a kind of monetised obsequiousness in which Octavia desperately courted the favour of notable people.  She knew about the bare little flat near London Bridge.  Mr Doggett would have to try hard indeed to convince Josette that she cared to know anything else.

An oily grin spread across his face, revealing teeth that looked like rubble from a building site.  Fitting, perhaps- Mr Doggett likely came from a long line of labourers, generation after generation of men whose greatest joy was to make animal noises at any passing woman, never looking for greater intellectual stimulation than that provided by a ninety-minute football match.  (Ah, said the socialists, but he was born the same helpless, weak creature that you were.  And what difference did that make?  Some people actually learned and grew after their birth, instead of rolling around in their own filth for decades to come.)

Mr Doggett took out his mobile telephone, pressed a few buttons, and held it out so that Josette could see what was on the screen.  “Take a look at these photos.  See if you recognise anybody.”

The first photograph was of an outdoor picnic table of some sort, with a large group of children stuffing their faces with fried food while the adults ignored them.  It took Josette barely a moment to recognise Octavia (bony and unwell-looking, chatting to a fat woman with a ragged pony-tail), and a few seconds more to recognise Mr Ashley, Octavia’s old music teacher.  Josette would have thought that the man would have been long dead by now.

Mr Doggett swiped his finger across the screen, and the image changed.  One could see more of the background- multicoloured rollercoasters and signs pointing to other attractions.  This one showed Octavia with her arm around a small girl who was blowing out candles on a shabby store-bought cake.  The child’s hair was dirty and her face was smeared with food.  Beside her, a balloon floated on a string attached to the table.  It was a gaudy pink-and-silver thing with the number ten printed on its side.

Josette opened her mouth to ask the point of any of this- was she supposed to be shocked that Octavia’s repertoire apparently included children’s parties?- when she saw the other girl in the picture.  Ratty pigtails and a pair of cheap plastic glasses, but besides that, she was the exact image of Octavia at ten years old.

Mr Doggett saw the expression on her face, and nodded.  “What if I told you you had two grandchildren you never knew about?”

(To be continued)

George Chandler had sent an email.  Apparently, if the awkward questions from the Inland Revenue didn’t stop soon, he could make her life very difficult.  Octavia wasn’t sure what he could do that would make her life any more difficult than it would have been if she’d carried on working for him, but she’d keep his email on file.

Meanwhile, she had Tamsin and her fractured fairy tales to attend to.  Russel was out today, so there was a bit of a weight of her mind.  Octavia sat on the shiny plastic sofa, and listened to Tamsin’s story about Russel hiring a skywriter to propose to her on her birthday.  “He actually proposed to me twice,” she added, “But the first time was just him whispering in my ear when we were watching Eastenders.  You can’t say yes to that.”

“I suppose not,” said Octavia.  The living room was so cramped that, if she wasn’t careful, she ended up sitting so that the coffee table was digging right into her knees.  It wasn’t even that small a room, but it was crammed so full of extra pieces of furniture that there was barely any space for you to fit.

“And anyway, our relationship wasn’t exactly on solid ground at the time.  We’d…  Well.  Something had happened, and there was a lack of trust.”

If he had an affair, just say he had an affair, thought Octavia.

“So I’d begun to, you know, play games.  Cause drama.”  She sighed.  “At the end of the day, I was just trying to get him to prove that he wasn’t like my dad.”

“Why, what was your dad like?”  (Obviously, Russel had already told her, but Octavia didn’t necessarily trust his judgement.)

Tamsin snorted.  “How long have you got?  After my mum chucked him out, it was like he just gave up on life.  He’d just be sitting on the sofa all day, staring at the TV with his mouth hanging open.”

Octavia made a sympathetic noise.

“One time when I was fifteen, I went round his, and he asked me to go on an errand, pick up something from a friend of his.  So I take the bus across town, and when I get there, it turns out that it’s a crack den!”  Tamsin’s face twisted in disgust.  “He wanted me to pick up pills for him!”

It took Octavia a moment to decide what her reply was going to be.  “Did you?  Pick them up, I mean?”

Tamsin shrugged.  “Yeah.  I’d promised my dad.”  There was something about the dull resignation in her voice that got to Octavia.  Maybe that was how you ended up married to a seedy old bastard like Russel.

She thought it over, then decided to say it.  “My parents kicked me out when I was sixteen.”

Tamsin’s eyebrows went up, and the rest of her seemed to do a little jump along with them.  “Really?”

“Well, technically, they’d been throwing me out every few months since I was thirteen.  Since I was twelve, if you count the year they sent me to boarding school.”  To this day, Octavia was convinced they’d only pulled her out of St Agnes’ because she hadn’t missed them as much as they’d hoped she would.  “They were divorced, so what would happen was, my mum would throw me out and tell me to go to my dad’s until she’d forgiven me.  Or until he got angry and threw me out, too.”

Tamsin nodded.  “Was it like they were using you as a weapon?  To hurt each other?”

Octavia thought about it.  “Maybe a little on my dad’s side, but not on my mum’s.  She always seemed to think they were on the verge of getting back together.  I mean, he remarried twice, but Mum just saw that as a minor bump.  She was the epic love story; his other wives were just distractions.”

Tamsin said nothing, but a strange look crossed her face.  Russel had definitely had an affair, Octavia decided.

“Anyway, when I was sixteen, my mum got me to play the piano at a party.  I was quite good at it in those days- my dad was always on at me to go professional.  But then, after I finished playing, somebody asked me if my mother had taught me how to play, and I said no- I’d been taking lessons from a man called Mr Ashley who’d advertised in the paper.  And my mother completely lost it.  She refused to speak to me for the rest of the night, and after everyone had gone, she completely lost it with me.”

“What, just because you told them about your piano teacher?”

“More because I’d said no when they’d asked me if it was her.  It was true- I don’t think she’d ever touched a piano in her life- but in her head, I’d humiliated her in front of all her friends.”  Octavia tried to remember what her mother had thrown at her that night- a glass? an ornament?- but there had been so many arguments over the years that some details had merged in her mind.  “She threw me out and told me to go to my dad’s.  But I ended up at Mr Ashley’s place instead.”

“Why?”

“I think I just thought of it because he was the one we’d been arguing about.  I knew I didn’t want to go to my dad’s- my stepmother had just had a baby, and the sleepless nights were making him temperamental.  Mr Ashley was the only adult I could think of who might be pleased to see me.”

“And he let you stay?”

“Yeah.”  A smile came to Octavia’s face, completely unbidden.  “I told him I’d leave school and get a job so I could pay rent, but he told me not to be ridiculous.  He just gave me the spare room, without a second thought.  I found out later that he’d taken in a few other people before me- mostly gay kids whose families hadn’t reacted well to it- so he had it down to an art.  There were even spare clothes I could use in the wardrobe.”  For a moment, she worried that she’d phrased that wrong- made it sound as if Mr Ashley had been a serial killer or something- but Tamsin was looking at her wide-eyed, with a big smile on her face.

“So you felt safe with him,” she said softly.

“Yes,” said Octavia, “That’s exactly it.”

“That’s how I feel when I’m with Russ.”

Octavia had to put in a lot of effort not to frown at that.

(To be continued)